


the love that you've looked for

by ausgezeichnet



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternating Perspective, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Developing Relationship, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Moving In Together, WIP, absolute dumbasses in love with each other, the clown is real but he won't show up for a while, the extenuating circumstances of clown-induced amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-01-16 22:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausgezeichnet/pseuds/ausgezeichnet
Summary: Richie Tozier meets the love of his life at an open-mic comedy night at a run-down tiki bar in Los Angeles.or: Eddie and Richie find each other, even when they can't remember each other. Twenty-seven years later, two pissed-off husbands return to Derry on a mission to kill a clown.





	1. Richie; June 1998

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhhhh I very much do not even go here, but I've been weirdly captivated by these two over the past few days, so here we are. 
> 
> I promise I'm still working on my Good Omens fic, if anyone happens to be reading that one, but this wouldn't let me go. 
> 
> Yes, the title is from the pina colada song, because of who I am as a person.

Open mic comedy night at _ The Laguna Room _is the best night of Richie's week, except for the other nights of the week when he's fucking your mom. 

Seriously, though. He likes his life in LA. He likes working at the record store and his shithole apartment with an ever-rotating cast of roommates annoyed with Richie's personal hygiene habits, but nothing gives him a thrill quite like standing up in front of a group of retirees and exhausted college students desperate for a drink in a crappy tiki bar and performing stand up on a Thursday night. 

He's drowning in pussy, of course, but nothing can quite match the rush of getting up on stage and having people pay attention to him. With the right timing and the right combination of words, he can get the whole room laughing. It's magic. Almost as magic as his dick.

Okay, okay, so he's actually hooked up like three times in the four years since he moved to LA, and the first girl sighed and kicked him out of her apartment when he asked her if she'd come. Not the point. Tonight is about one thing, baby: Richie Tozier getting up on that stage and bringing the house down. 

He had arrived at the bar around 7, after coming home from his shift and eating his last pack of ramen. He looks down at the beer in his hand, thinking about how many packs of instant noodles the $3 beer could have bought him, but he needs a drink to sit at the sticky bar along the side wall, and he's waiting for them to call him up to perform. His name is scrawled on a clipboard hanging on the wall next to the stage. They use the same setup to let the old people sing Jimmy Buffett karaoke on Fridays, but it's still a stage. It's still real. 

On the stage now, a nervous-looking Indian woman is telling an anecdote about getting her driver's license. She's funny enough, the crowd laughing along, but Richie can hardly pay attention to her words. They'll call him soon, maybe even next. He takes a long pull of his beer and starts bouncing his leg underneath the bar, reviewing his new material in his head. Timing is critical on the first joke; he'd practiced in the mirror before he left for work that morning, but is a joke about almost getting his nuts stuck in a record player really the right place to start?

Yeah. Of course it is. No time for doubt; he's obviously hilarious. He takes another swig of beer, nearly emptying the bottle, and bounces his left leg even harder, working out his nervous energy. 

"Do you mind?" comes a dry voice from the seat beside him, and Richie blinks, readjusts his focus. The man beside him is short, with eyebrows drawn together into a glare over his big brown eyes. He looks clean-cut, far too clean-cut for this bar with a fine selection of cheap tropical cocktails and a carpet gone grey with so much spilled beer that even Richie finds it kind of disgusting. 

_ The Laguna Room _has plastic palm fronds tied around the pillars, fake coconuts decorating a cluster of small round tables near the stage, and a tacky mural of Hawaii along the wall across from the bar. This guy, even though he looks about the same age as Richie, belongs in someplace with real leather seats and a decent whiskey selection. He looks like he has good taste. Richie licks his lips, unconsciously. 

"Do I mind what? That you fell out of a J. Crew catalog and ended up in this shithole?" Richie asks with a smirk. 

His eyes glance past the guy to the woman finishing up her time on stage. His mind wanders back to his set. Should he include some audience interaction? There was a heckler during his last set here, but he'd gotten a few laughs, and a girl came up to him at the bar afterwards and told him he was funny, so. Score one for him. 

"I meant, do you mind not _ bouncing your fucking leg?" _the guy says, and his hand lands on Richie's bouncing knee. Richie freezes. The guy somehow looks even angrier, which is actually kind of adorable, and he's not pulling his hand away from Richie's leg, not that Richie wants him to take his hand back. He's got neatly manicured fingernails, but his hand still looks masculine, lined with visible veins. It's a nice hand. Nothing like Richie's hand, his fingernails are always chewed to shit. His palm is super warm, even through Richie's jeans. 

Oh. Shit. Richie is _ definitely _ into this dude. 

Attraction to men is nothing new. He's bisexual, or whatever, if you have to put a label on it, and he lives in Los Angeles. They're not gonna run him out of the neighborhood with pitchforks for wanting to touch another dude's dick. Still, some small, sick part of him, cultivated in small-town Maine, is busy freaking out that this guy will somehow be able to tell that he's really into this whole hand-knee action happening right now, and then he'll get beat up and laughed at and they'll never let him perform here again because he's a big, dirty homo. 

The guy still hasn't moved his hand, although his face is turning red, and double shit, Richie is staring at him open-mouthed like a goddamn jackass. 

He's about to say something dumb about the word _ bouncing _and how he had to stay active to keep up with this dude's mother, when a bored-looking girl at the microphone squints at the clipboard and calls out, "Richie- uh, Toaster?"

Swearing under his breath, Richie puts his beer down on the bar and breaks the weirdly intense eye contact with the guy. He moves to stand up, and the guy pulls his hand away quickly, as if he'd forgotten that he was still touching Richie's knee. Riche's whole leg is tingling. He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and starts to walk away. 

"Your name is Richie _ Toaster?" _asks Mr. Doe Eyes as he walks past, but Richie doesn't have time to deal with this guy and his sexy hand placement habits right now. It's showtime, baby. 

He walks up to the half-moon wood stage against the back wall, approaches the mic, and starts to introduce himself. The sound system gives off an ear-splitting whine. Everyone in the room flinches, and Richie pulls back from the mic for a moment of awkward silence. 

Not his best start. 

He starts off as planned, a bit stumbling. The record machine bit plays pretty well, and he's starting to pick up speed, relaxing into it, when he finds himself locking eyes with the dude at the bar, who is staring at him with his dark manic eyes. Seriously. He can't tell if the guy is disgusted, or weirdly into his five-minute comedy set, but he almost blanks on his closing joke until he tears his eyes away and focuses on finishing the set with a smile and a waggle of his eyebrows. 

"I'm Richie Toaster, apparently, thanks everyone!" he says, releasing the mic and grinning. The audience applauds, loud enough that he doesn't want to leave the stage. One girl at the bar wolf-whistles, but there's also a group of old guys in bowling shirts staring at him suspiciously and entirely unamused from a round table near the stage, so: mixed reviews. 

Smiling and sweat-stained, Richie makes his way back to the bar, where his seat has been taken by the woman who was on stage before him. She's chatting with the angry guy with the nice hands, both of them looking more relaxed. A girlfriend? Then what was with all the intense eye contact? 

Maybe the dude just really hates him, and Richie's being weird. Again. That sounds about right. 

Finding another empty barstool at the end of the bar, back to the door, Richie sits down and orders another beer. The girl sitting next to him has long brown hair, which she flips over her shoulder as she turns from a conversation with her friend to give him a smile.

"You were pretty funny up there," she says. 

"Thanks," he says, grinning. Two stand up nights, two compliments from hot girls in a row. 

"You make a lot of dick jokes," says the girl's friend, setting down her enormous margarita. She reaches out a hand to take the brown-haired girl's hand in a possessive, familiar way, and ohhhh. Okay. Richie gets it. Whatever. Not like he was looking to hook up tonight anyway. 

"I make a lot of _ hilarious _jokes," he says. 

"Uh-huh," says the girlfriend, "Makes it seem like you're compensating for something, just saying."

"That's not what your mom said last night," Richie counters automatically. 

"Seriously?" says the girlfriend. "That's the best you can do?"

Richie is saved from having to answer by the arrival of the bartender with his beer. After a few minutes, the girls close out their tab and head out the door into the humid heat of the summer night, leaving Richie alone at the end of the bar. He sips at his beer and tries not to stare too obviously at the guy further down the bar. Something about him seems familiar: the short-cropped hair, the wide eyes, the stick up his ass. Shit. Maybe Richie's just horny. It is a _ very _ nice ass. 

The guy seems to be arguing with the woman about something, not paying any attention to the performer currently on stage. He talks in sharp, choppy bursts, gesturing with his hands. The woman seems amused. Is Richie imagining things, or did she just gesture at him over her shoulder?

The last comic of the night finishes up his set to polite applause. Richie joins in with some half-hearted clapping, then goes back to systematically peeling the label off of his beer bottle. The bartender switches on the crackling stereo system, and the piña colada song starts playing. Richie drains his second beer and orders a third, then sneaks another glance over at the guy, who-- isn't there?

"Hi," comes a familiar voice from right next to him, and Richie shrieks, almost falling off the bar stool. He catches himself and turns to look at the guy, who is standing behind the empty bar stool next to him and staring.

"Jesus," said the guy. "Do you ever pay any attention to your surroundings?"

"Uh," Richie says. "I might have… zoned out a little bit. Um. Hi?"

"Hi," the guy says again, sliding into the empty bar seat and setting his rum and coke down in front of him. Further up the bar, Richie can see the woman from earlier giving the guy an enthusiastic thumbs up. Huh. Maybe not a girlfriend. 

"I'm Richie," says Richie. "Tozier, not Toaster. I guess my teachers were right about my handwriting being shit, huh?"

The guy is still staring at him, in that same oddly intense manner. His gaze makes Richie feel uncomfortably _ seen, _like those eyes can cut through all the bluster and jokes and see the bullshit at the very heart of him. 

"I'm Eddie," says the guy. "Kaspbrak."

Richie holds out a friendly hand. "Nice to meet you, dude," he says. Eddie looks at his hand like Richie had just tried to give him a dead mouse. 

"Do you have any idea how many people have touched that microphone?" Eddie says. "Because I bet no one has disinfected that thing in years. No thanks."

"Oookay," Richie says, retracting his hand. "Sorry for trying to infect you with my weird comedian germs. Geez."

"Trust me, jackass," Eddie says. "That thing is probably crawling with bacteria."

They sit in silence for a moment. Richie takes a drink, and Eddie follows suit. Richie starts drumming his fingers on the bar until Eddie glares pointedly at them. _ Margaritaville _starts playing over the speakers. 

"So," Richie said. "What'd you think of my set?"

"Honestly?" Eddie says. "You _ sucked._"

"Oh, thanks man, that really means a lot to me."

"No, really," Eddie continues. "I mean, your timing wasn't terrible, and you definitely have _ some _stage presence, but your jokes were all seventh-grade level dick jokes. Low-hanging fruit, man."

"That's not the only thing that hangs low," Richie says. He really can't help himself, it's reflexive at this point. 

"Really?" Eddie says. "Come on, man."

Richie sighs, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Why'd you come over here? Huh? Just to tell me that I suck?"

Eddie remains silent. Richie turns towards him with growing delight. 

"Wait," he says. "Eds. Eddie. My main man Eddie Spaghetti. Do you think I'm _ cute?" _

"Shut up," Eddie says. "Don't fucking call me that, Mr. _ Toaster._"

"Oh, you do!" Richie says. His whole face lights up. "You think I'm _ hot_! Oh, man, did your friend make you come over here and talk to me? That's priceless, man, that's great. You hate my comedy but you _ still _wanna jump my bones?"

"Fuck off," Eddie says, and oh, his whole face his turning red, including the tips of his ears. He's _ adorable. _"Wait. Were you watching me?" Eddie asks, his brain catching up with his embarrassment.

Richie looks him up and down, still laughing, but there's something about the lithe compact power of Eddie's body that Richie can definitely appreciate. Yeah. He's down for this. Holy shit, he really, genuinely wants to dick this dude down, or possibly get dicked down by this dude. He's not feeling picky. 

"And if I was?" Richie asks, trying to hold onto his liquid courage and not throw up all over himself. He's gonna fuck this guy. Richie Tozier, getting laid and living the bi life, fuck yeah. 

"Huh," Eddie says, his embarrassed gaze turning assessing, and wow, that's really doing it for Richie. Shit. 

"You, uh. You wanna get out of here?" Richie ventures, trying not to let his hands shake with a heady mix of anticipation and nerves. This feels more important than a potential hook-up at a bar. He desperately wants Eddie to come home with him, for reasons he can't fully understand. 

Eddie looks nervous, like he's calculating every single way this could go wrong inside his head. For a moment, Richie thinks Eddie's about to walk away from him, and he begins to prepare himself for humiliating rejection, which he's certainly gotten used to through trying out stand-up material. Then, something shifts behind Eddie's eyes, a naked hunger overcoming the uncertainty. 

"You know what?" Eddie says. "Fuck it."

He reaches for his glass and drains the remaining alcohol in one gulp. Richie watches his throat work as he swallows. Eddie puts the glass down on the bar, throws a $5 bill onto the bar, then slides off his seat, heading a few steps towards the door and turning to wait expectantly for Richie. 

"You coming, or what?" Eddie says, with a little smirk, because he's apparently a bold little shit once he's made a decision. 

"Sir, yes, sir," Richie says, shelling a few bills out of his wallet and grinning as he slides off the barstool and moves to follow Eddie out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that this was at least partially inspired by georgiestauffenberg's incredible fic "the years go by like days," so definitely go check that out
> 
> They're supposed to be in their early 20s here, so this is technically set in the 90s (to start), but I'm not getting super into that aspect of the setting. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	2. Eddie; June 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! You guys are super nice, thanks!!! 
> 
> So, I realized that when I initially posted this fic, it was accidentally marked as complete. But guess what! There's more!! 
> 
> We're switching to Eddie's perspective in this chapter. Also, we're starting to earn the mature rating for something more than their language in this chapter, so ~enjoy that~

Eddie feels his courage begin to flag as soon as he steps outside the bar, Richie following close behind him. 

The street smells disgusting, like garbage and piss, and there’s an alleyway across the street that’s probably full of muggers and broken needles. The green light streaming through the awning in front of the bar makes everything on the street look sickly and surreal, and it streams across the side of Richie’s face and illuminates the frizzy edges of his curls when he comes to stand beside Eddie on the curb.

A few cars pass. Eddie shivers, even though it’s still 70 degrees and clear. He can hear _ Cheeseburger in Paradise _playing over the bar speakers, muffled by the door. 

The flare of a flame in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns to look at Richie, who is struggling to light a cigarette he’s holding in his mouth. After three tries, the flame catches, a red glow flaring into life. Richie takes a drag, then accidentally drops his lighter on the ground. When he reaches down to pick up the lighter, his pack of cigarettes falls out of his pocket. After scrabbling around on the dirty pavement for twenty seconds trying to pick both items up, Richie finally manages to get both his lighter and his cigarettes tucked away in his pocket at the same time. He stands up, yanks the cigarette out of his mouth, blows out a huge mouthful of smoke, coughs a little, and gives Eddie a huge, cheesy grin. 

Great. This is the guy Eddie chose for his big gay awakening, and he’s an absolute idiot. 

Everything about this guy should be disgusting. He smokes, he drinks, he goes to shitty dive bars and tells terrible jokes, and he desperately needs a haircut. That doesn’t change the fact that Eddie kind of wants to suck his dick, which is a revelation on multiple levels. 

He might be freaking out a little bit. Okay, a lot. He’s freaking out a lot. He doesn't _ do _ this. Approaching people in dive bars, hooking up, bringing home random people, yet alone someone who looks like this guy? Eddie has never done anything remotely like this before, and fuck, he’s not even _ gay_. Does Richie think he’s gay? Is Richie gay? If he wants to suck Richie’s dick, does that actually make him gay? Oh, god. This whole thing was a mistake. 

Divya, the other intern with the accounting division at the insurance company downtown, had asked him to come with her to the bar. He’s still not sure why he agreed. He prefers his liver intact, thank you very much. Still, she’d seemed excited, and he actually liked her, unlike all his friends back at NYU. Steve and Isaiah in the dorm were good study partners, and Will went running with him sometimes, but none of them ever talked about anything interesting. Eddie didn’t really mind the radio silence. 

So, having a friend that made him want to go to a bar? On a _ Thursday _ night, with work in the morning? That was a big fucking deal. A voice that sounded like his mother had told him that bars were disgusting places of sexual congress and alcoholic overindulgence, and in the case of _ The Laguna Room_, that voice was probably right, but he'd wanted to go and support his friend. He had been planning on leaving as soon as she was done, making some excuse about having work in the morning, but he hadn't expected the guy sitting next to him at the bar to be so _ annoying. _

And now, he's standing on the curb outside the bar, having accepted the invitation of a _ male stranger _to leave. He's definitely going to get axe murdered, or possibly get AIDS. Or both. Probably both. Why did he think he could do this?

Richie stands beside him on the curb, smoking as Eddie very quietly freaks out. His breath comes ragged, and he pulls out his inhaler, taking a puff, then shaking the plastic dispenser vigorously and taking a second dose. Some of the tightness in his chest begins to ease. 

"You okay, dude?" Richie asks, watching him. The interest in his eyes hasn't faded. 

Fuck. Eddie might need to review the whole "I'm not gay" thing, because this particular combination of earnest interest, a mop of black hair, and a lanky body that seemed mostly comprised of limbs is, oddly enough, really doing it for him. Maybe he’s jealous of Richie’s courage, or something, but no, that doesn't feel right. His eyes kept catching on Richie’s broad shoulders and sharp jawline when Richie was on stage, and right now, even though Richie's smoking a cigarette, he still really wants to kiss him.

He studies Richie for a moment, who is patiently waiting for an answer. Eddie takes a deep breath, coughing a little as cigarette smoke gets in his lungs. Richie frowns, then drops the cigarette on the street and grinds out the flame with his shoe. 

“Shit, dude,” Richie says. “Sorry about the smoking, didn’t know you have asthma. You sure you’re okay? You kinda look like you’re dying. Shit. You’re not dying, are you? Cuz that would really suck, for multiple reasons. That’s like, uh, _ Houston, we have a problem here! I wanna suck on this dude’s tonsils, but he’s just keeled over and died! _ Not cool, man.” 

Eddie wheezes, then laughs a little. This whole situation is absurd, but Richie’s concern feels really sincere, even if he's expressing it in the worst possible way, and Eddie still feels an unfamiliar tug in his chest when he looks at Richie, even if he’s a jackass with a terrible sense of humor who just littered on the street. 

Shit. He wants him. 

"Yeah," he gasps out eventually. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just, uh. Not really used to doing this, you know?"

"Yeah," Richie says, nodding. "So you still wanna do this, or you wanna go home? By yourself, I mean. Cuz I gotta tell you, it's obviously fine if you just want to go home, but my dick would really prefer if you came home with me."

Eddie stares at him. He keeps doing that. God, he's being really fucking creepy, but he can't help it. There's something undeniably familiar about Richie. He can't remember ever meeting him before in his life, but his heart pounds whenever they make eye contact, and not just because he’s angry at the guy’s incredibly awful sense of humor. 

Okay. Okay. What do people do in situations like this? He can’t remember. All the movie actors seem so smooth when they ask someone out, but he’s never seen a movie where the actor is trying to proposition another guy on the curb of a crappy tiki bar in LA with the B-52’s _ Love Shack _playing in the background. The soundtrack is really not helping. Come on Eddie, what do cool people do? 

“Uh,” he says, then cocks his hip, trying to make his voice deeper. “Your place or mine?” 

Shit. Did that sound normal? That sounded pretty smooth, right? 

Richie grins at him, goofy and wide, and scuffs his shoes against the pavement. “My place is like a mile, that way,” he says, waving his arm to vaguely indicate north. “You okay with walking?” 

Eddie nods, his mouth going dry. This is insane. He’s quite possibly going insane. 

He looks back into the bar. Divya’s staring at him through the window, and when she sees him look at her, she gives a big thumbs up and raises her beer in a salute. 

Okay. Yep. This is happening. 

They start walking back to Richie’s apartment. Richie’s chattering on about the neighborhood and the robbery that happened at the convenience store on the corner. He’s mixing in impressions and occasionally dropping into funny voices, and almost despite himself, Eddie finds himself laughing and relaxing. He’s funny and genuine, even sweet, if a bit scattered in his storytelling. They bump shoulders companionably as they walk. 

Eddie does not make friends easily, not like this. This just isn’t something that _ happens _to people like him. Still, today seems to be about defying expectations. 

After fifteen minutes, Richie stops in a doorway and pulls out his keys, fumbling them a little bit. Is he nervous? Eddie feels some anxiety rise again in the pit of his stomach as he waits for Richie to open the door. A couple walks past them on the sidewalk, and Eddie smiles and nods at them awkwardly. They side-eye him as they walk by, dressed for a night out. Can they tell what he and Richie are about to do? Do they think he’s disgusting? God, his mother would literally have an aneurysm if she could see him right now. 

Richie pushes the door open and turns to look back at Eddie, who rocks back on his heels. This is it. He could make his excuses now, saying he doesn’t feel well, and walk off into the night. He never has to see Richie again. 

Haloed by the dim lighting in the stairwell, Richie stops the constant chatter and stays still, waiting for him to make a decision. Somehow, the uncharacteristic silence makes it easier for Eddie to be brave. They’re both going out on a limb here, and Eddie can see some of his own uncertainty reflected in Richie’s eyes. 

He steps forward and takes Richie’s extended hand, letting himself be pulled up the stairs to an apartment on the third floor. Eddie barely even notices the disgusting hallway or the bugs trapped inside the fluorescent light fixtures on the landing ceiling because he’s so fixated on Richie’s hand, slightly sweaty against his own palm. 

He allows Richie to pull him inside the apartment, which is _ definitely _grimier than any place Eddie would ever live. There’s a kitchen to the left and a living room which opens to the right. One of Richie’s roomates is sitting on a ratty-looking couch eating pasta and watching an old X-Files episode on the tv. He turns and looks over at them, saying hi to Richie. He looks unfazed to see him holding hands with a guy, but Eddie still feels his anxiety spike. He pulls his hand away. Richie frowns at him, but continues talking to the guy about some leftovers that have gone bad in the refrigerator. 

Eddie looks around the apartment. It’s about what he would have expected, which is to say: disgusting. Dirty dishes overflow in the kitchen sink, and there’s a sock sticking out from underneath the refrigerator. None of the furniture in the living room matches, and most of it looks like it was pulled out of a dumpster. He can see suspicious dark stains on the seat of the green recliner across from the door. The television is sitting on top of a black milk crate. 

Shit. Maybe Richie’s not an axe murderer, and he doesn’t look like he has AIDS, but Eddie’s definitely going to contract some sort of fatal infection if he stays in this apartment for too long. He looks suspiciously down at the brown carpet. Does it have mold underneath it? He’s definitely going to have an asthma attack if there’s mold under the carpet, and possibly die. 

A tug on his hand draws his attention away from the scummy bachelor pad surroundings. Richie’s roommate is apparently done complaining about the rotten leftovers in the fridge, and he’s returned to his X-Files episode. Richie’s looking at him. Eddie takes a deep breath, and lets Richie pull him down the hallway into a small bedroom to the right, drawing him inside and closing the door. He flips the lock, and turns to look at Eddie, who is staring right back at him in the dark room, illuminated only by the street light shining through the blinds on the single window in the wall across from the door. 

Stepping slowly forward, Richie presses Eddie up against the wall, placing his hands on either side of his head. An old Rolling Stones poster crinkles against Eddie’s back. Their faces are very close. Richie’s breath smells like beer, and he’s kind of sweaty, but Eddie can feel the long, warm line of him against his front, and Richie’s lips look very soft. 

Tentatively, Eddie pushes forward and kisses him, quickly, once, then pulls back. 

Huh. That wasn’t so bad. 

Richie’s staring at him as he pulls away, and Eddie lets his head thud against the wall. He tilts up his chin, drawing his neck out into a long line, and Richie’s gaze flickers briefly down his body. Richie’s pupils are blown, his hair is sticking up all over the place, his lips look very red, and wow, he’s actually kind of gorgeous. 

Suddenly, Richie leans in to capture Eddie’s mouth, kissing him so thoroughly Eddie wonders if his knees are about to give out. He surges up into the kiss, hungry for more, and wraps his arms around Richie’s shoulders. He bites at Richie’s upper lip, and feels Richie’s arms come around his waist, nearly lifting him up off the ground. He steps forward so he’s standing on top of Richie’s feet, and he feels Richie’s tongue push forward and lick at Eddie’s bottom lip. He opens his mouth reflexively, and hoo boy. That’s a new one. 

It’s gross. Objectively, it’s kind of gross, because they’re sharing spit, and he could get mono or a cold or the flu or meningitis or any number of horrible diseases from this, but it’s also kind of _ awesome_. Eddie’s never been kissed like this before. His whole body is on fire. 

Pulling Eddie off the wall, Richie spins them, and clumsily frog-walks them over to the bed in the middle of the tiny room, trying to move without separating their mouths. He shoves Eddie back onto the bed, and they both bounce as they land. Eddie giggles up at the ceiling, feeling younger and more carefree than he can remember feeling in a long time. The comforter is kind of disgusting, and Richie’s ceiling has water damage, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a single flying fuck where they are when Richie’s grinning over at him, his glasses askew on his face. 

Eddie reaches out, pulling Richie back on top of him. Richie leans back in, and yeah, there’s his tongue again. Huh. It’s still kind of gross, but Eddie could get used to this, actually.

Richie shifts forward, bracketing his arms on either side of Eddie’s head, and he lets his hips drop down to drag against Eddie’s hips. The pressure and heat feel amazing, and they find a rhythm grinding against one another. Richie groans into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie begins to shove at Richie’s shirt, pulling back from the kiss to undo the buttons. At the same time, Richie reaches down to pull at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt. They get tangled, and Eddie starts giggling again, but eventually they both manage to pull their own shirts off, and Richie accidentally sends his glasses flying across the room when he throws his shirt off the end of the bed. 

“Your hair looks _ insane,” _says Eddie, looking up at Richie’s mess of dark curls, which is sticking up in every direction.

“Oh yeah?” Richie says, grinning. “Well, maybe I'm the bride of Frankenstein, bitch. _ I vant your brains!” _

He dives down and starts sucking at Eddie’s neck. 

“That doesn't even make any sense- oh!” says Eddie, because, yeah, that’s nice. His neck is apparently really sensitive, jesus. He’s gonna have a hickey at work tomorrow. Richie’s like a goddamn vacuum cleaner. 

He squirms after a moment, trying to shove at Richie’s shoulders when his neck becomes too sensitive. Instead of pulling away, Richie slides down the bed, kissing at Eddie’s chest and stomach, and taking a moment to gently bite at his right nipple, then swirl his tongue all the way around it. Ugh, that's absolutely disgusting, and should not be in any way hot. There might be something seriously wrong with him. Richie keeps going, kissing his way down to the clasp of Eddie’s jeans, before pausing to look at Eddie for permission. Eddie nods, starting to feel a little desperate. He’s pretty sure he’s never been this hard before. 

Richie sucks dick like he does anything: intense, determined, and a little goofy. He keeps making these exaggerated slurping noises that have Eddie reaching down to whack at his head and shoulders, but then he’ll do something _ really _clever with his tongue that has Eddie arching up into his mouth, and holy shit, this isn’t really gonna last very long. 

By the time he comes, Eddie’s whole body is tingling, and he’s pretty sure he makes a really embarrassing noise. Richie swallows him down, not stopping until Eddie’s fully whimpering with oversensitivity. Then he grins, climbs up Eddie’s body, and lets Eddie shove his hand down his pants. 

Eddie really doesn’t know what he’s doing, but apparently Richie’s not feeling picky, because after about a minute, he makes a really dumb face and comes all over Eddie’s hand inside his underwear. Richie slumps down against his chest and nuzzles against him. His jeans are still clinging to his hips; they never got around to taking them off. 

Shit. Eddie can barely hear anything, his hearing dulled to a high whine. His limbs feel like jelly. Is it possible to suck out someone’s brain through their dick? 

He stares up at the ceiling, watching the fan rotate above them, and slowly lets the sounds of everyday life filter back into his mind. From the living room, he can hear Mulder trying to convince Scully of his latest theory on a homicide. Scully sounds skeptical. Someone downstairs is playing guitar, loudly and egregiously badly. 

Against his chest, Richie starts snoring. He’s definitely going to drool on Eddie, but since he just gave him the best orgasm of his life, he’ll let it pass. His brain feels like soup.

Well. Guess that’s a resounding “yes” from the referendum on today’s most pressing question: is Eddie Kaspbrak gay? 

Eddie lets his eyes slip closed, and resolves to worry about everything in the morning. 


	3. Richie; June 1998

Richie wakes up starfished on top of his comforter, wincing as he shifts and feels his sticky underwear and jeans still clinging to his hips. He sits up, patting around on the bedspread for his glasses, which don’t seem to be anywhere near him. Sliding to the end of the bed, he peels himself out of his slightly crusty underwear, which was kind of gross even by his standards, throws his jeans onto the floor, and stands up to walk towards the blurry shape of his dresser.

A few steps across the room, he hears an ominous crunching noise and feels something hard poke at the bottom of his foot. Squinting at the floor in the mostly dark room, he reaches down and feels his fingers close around the familiar frames of his glasses, which had somehow ended up halfway across the room on the floor next to his dresser.

He slides his glasses on his face, wincing when he looks through the right frame. There’s a significant crack, running a jagged diagonal line across the corner of his vision. Broken. Again. Ugh, he really needs to stop doing that. His awesome wardrobe sometimes alarms people not yet ready for the future of fashion, but the addition of cracked lenses tend to make people edge around him during his shift at the record store.

His reflection in the mirror over the dresser set across from his bed catches his attention. Holy shit, his hair has gone full Doc Brown from _Back to the Future_, or maybe electrocution victim. What the fuck had he been doing last night?

The memory of wide brown eyes and a warm hand around his dick comes back to Richie, and he blinks at himself in the mirror. Oh. Right. More like _who _the fuck had he been doing last night, huh?

It’s chill. It’s fine. He’s a cool, sophisticated, grown-up bisexual dude in Los Angeles. It’s 1998. He can hook up with a weirdly adorable stranger from a bar, no big deal. He’s not gonna, like, catch something horrible and die, especially if it only happens once, right? Also definitely not a big deal that the guy apparently decided to leave without saying goodbye to him, because it’s not like he wanted to wake the guy up with a blowjob and then tease him over scrambled eggs in the morning, because that would be un-chill and way too domestic after one night together. Fuck. He doesn’t even have Eddie’s number.

Maybe he could look him up in the phone book? Could be worth a shot, although since Eddie snuck out of his apartment without a note or saying goodbye, maybe he didn't want Richie to find him. Maybe the sex was disgusting, or Eddie got freaked out by his back hair or something. Also, in order to look him up, Richie would need to figure out how to spell his last name. Kapsbrak? Kaspbrak? Caddyshack? Fuck if he knows.

He pulls a pair of old boxers and a ratty t-shirt out of his dresser, then walks out into the quiet hallway, scratching at his balls. Falling asleep immediately after hooking up was apparently not the best idea; he desperately needs a shower. Performing stand-up makes him sweaty and disgusting on a normal night. At least his roommates are already out of the apartment, at work or class, doing what lame semi-responsible people have to do on a Friday morning. 

In the bathroom, he rinses the crud out of his eyes and tries combing his hair into some sort of order. After a few minutes of yanking at knots, he gives up, staring at himself in the mirror. With the cracked glasses, t-shirt stained with pizza sauce, and rat’s nest of tangled hair, he does look sort of crazy. No wonder Eddie didn’t bother to stay; he probably woke up, looked over at Richie, and ran out the fucking door. Sighing, Richie gives up and walks down the hallway to the kitchen.

The clock on the microwave in the kitchen reads 9:37, and he yawns, opening their fridge, and immediately closing it again, wincing at the smell. Brian might have had a point about those Indian leftovers from last weekend; something smells rotten in Denmark. Gingerly, he reopens the door, fishes the styrofoam container out with the tips of his fingers, and dunks it into the trash can against the wall to his left. Mission accomplished. Except now the entire kitchen smells like slightly off curry, and yeah, it’s probably his turn to take the trash out. Responsible adulting. He’s totally got this.

After taking out the trash, or at the very least taking the trash bag out of the can and throwing the bag out into the hallway to take down to the dumpster when he leaves for his shift (yes, he’s totally going to remember), he walks back into the kitchen and cracks a few eggs into a frying pan, letting his mind wander.

Today’s shift at the record store starts at 11, he’s totally going to be on time like a responsible employee, because he’s obviously an adult who has his life together, and totally not the kind of lonely asshole who keeps thinking about the face Eddie made right before he kissed him.

Shit.

He burns the eggs, stays in the shower letting the water stream over his shoulders until he’s used up every last drop of hot water, and forgets the trash as he runs out the door ten minutes later than he needs to leave if he wants to be on time for his shift.

He tries not to think about Eddie, like, constantly, but he’s never really been able to divert his brain where he wants it to go. His train of thoughts careens down the hill into the valley of mild obsession, no matter how hard he pulls on the brakes.

He thinks about the warm weight of Eddie’s hand on his knee while he’s skateboarding over to his shift at the record store. He thinks about Eddie tilting his face up and letting his head thud back against the wall after their first kiss, challenging Richie to make his move, when he’s in the middle of sorting the new delivery of used vinyl into the long wooden double-sided stand running down the middle of the store.

Is it possible to like your life and still be, like, really fucking lonely? He chews over the question, staring down at David Bowie’s face covered in stylized clown makeup on the cover of _Scary Monsters and Super Creeps. _The muscles in his back tighten and shiver, involuntarily.

Working here isn’t, like, his dream, but he’s independent, and he likes the sprawling ambitious anarchy of Los Angeles. He’s got friends, or at least roommates who haven’t murdered him yet. _The Laguna Room _crowd loves his stand-up, except, well, he’s not getting paid for it yet, and other people would fill up the volunteer sign-up spots if he didn’t show up.

When he thinks about his life for long enough, which he normally tries really hard not to do, there’s not a single person in his life who is absolutely irreplaceable. Even his parents seem content to go for months without hearing from him. He has a sinking feeling that everyone in his life feels the same way about him-- he's sometimes tolerable, funny on occasion, but interchangeable with a thousand other faces.

“You gonna sort that album, or fuck it?” comes Angie’s voice from the sales desk in the front corner of the store.

Richie turns and waggles his eyebrows at her. “Me and Mr. Bowie need our alone time, Angie, you know that. He comforts me when I start missing your mom’s tits too much.”

Angie pops her gum and looks at him over her copy of _Rolling Stone,_ unimpressed. Okay, okay, so maybe he needs to do his job and sort the new shipment of cassettes into the stacks on the back wall, but he’s busy being a maudlin asshole, which is apparently what happens when he hooks up with a cute guy. Who knew.

The rest of the week passes in a blur. He shows up for his shifts at the record store. He tries to write stand-up material, but every time he flops down on his bed and tries to think up jokes, his brain keeps conjuring up flashes of eager lips and desperate noises, and he can’t get anything done. Is he the kind of loser who fixates on a stranger he’s hooked up with once? Apparently.

After his shift on Thursday, he spends twenty minutes staring at his closet, trying to figure out what he’s going to wear. Hawaiian shirt? Ironic graphic t-shirt? Concert tour t-shirt? Would Eddie be into something more sophisticated? He doesn’t own anything more sophisticated, so that’s a moot point, and oh my god, he’s being pathetic. He’s not even performing tonight because his brain refused to cooperate and work on new material.

There’s no real reason to go to _The Laguna Room_ tonight. He’s never seen Eddie at the bar before, and there’s no reason to expect he’ll be there again, but something in Richie can’t shake the urge. At the very least, he could really use a fucking drink.

He gives up on his appearance, grabs his wallet and keys, and heads out into the evening haze.

The familiar green awning comes into sight as he reaches the corner opposite the bar, and he’s already peering through the front window from across the street, trying to catch a glimpse of brown hair and tight-wired shoulders. Neon palm trees and beer logos obscure his sightline, and he jogs across the street to get closer.

There’s something electric running under his skin. He’s _wired. _If Eddie isn’t there, if nothing happens at the bar, he’s going to shake right out of his skin. Anticipation is making his hands shake; he stuffs them into his pockets, desperately wishing he'd been able to find something nicer to wear than an old Grateful Dead concert tour shirt. His glasses are still cracked.

He crosses the street and walks past the laundromat, and opens the front door of the bar. He's arriving later than normal; open-mic night has closed. “Tequila” by the Champs is playing over the speakers. Richie really needs to find someplace with a better music selection. Maybe he should make the bar a mixtape, or something. He scans the length of the bar in front of him, and the round tables scattered across the open space to his left, looking for any glimpse of Eddie, or even his friend the stand-up comic.

A dark-haired man halfway up the bar catches his attention. Richie stares a second, and the man turns, making direct eye contact with him. He offers a small smile, but nope, he’s not Eddie, just some exhausted grad student with dramatic circles under his eyes.

He’s not here. He was never going to be here. He’s not a regular at this bar, and he has no reason to come back, especially since he knows that Richie comes here, and he ran out of Richie’s apartment rather than talking to him after hooking up. Richie’s just being a desperate asshole, and fuck, he really needs to get laid more often if just one handjob can turn his brain into horny mush. It wasn’t even a technically advanced handjob, and Eddie had looked kind of nervous the whole time, but Richie hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all week.

Yep. He needs a drink, or ten.

Richie takes an open seat halfway up the bar, signaling the bartender. It’s Tricia tonight, blonde and no-nonsense. She gives him a friendly nod, and pulls a glass down to fill his normal beer order. Richie’s knee starts bouncing under the bar again. God, he’s not even performing tonight, and he’s still filled with so much nervous energy that he wants to walk right out into the street and go running off into the night. He _hates _running.

Instead, he takes a sip of beer, listening as the stereo switches to “Hotel California” and letting the noise of the sparse crowd wash over him. It would be ridiculous to feel disappointed right now, which is why Richie absolutely does not feel crushed by Eddie’s absence, because he's not this desperate. He's 22 and single, okay, living it up in Los Angeles, not some old maid waiting for his lost childhood sweetheart who never returned from the war. Pining for the fjords, he is not.

He starts reading the labels on each bottle of liquor along the back shelf of the bar. If he didn’t have work tomorrow, he’d switch to something stronger than beer. Hell, maybe he’ll have something anyway. The burn of bourbon would be really nice right now, as well as a break from his goddamn ridiculous brain.

Scanning the room once more, his eyes catch on movement in the hallway along the back wall which leads to the bathrooms, and holy shit, that’s him. That’s him. Walking back out into the main room, looking absolutely as cute as before, is Eddie fuckin’ Kaspbrak, wearing a green t-shirt that emphasizes the slim cut of his hips and the sharp contrast of his dark hair against his skin.

Before he’s even fully processed what he’s seeing-- did Eddie come back here for _him_?-- Richie’s face breaks into a grin. Holy shit. Okay, so maybe he has been pining like a desperate asshole, but Eddie chose to come back to this bar in particular, on a Thursday night, with no friend in sight. This could be promising. Maybe he’s not the only one feeling thrown off his game.

Eddie spots him and does a double take. It's cute as hell. It should honestly be illegal for a grown man to be so fucking cute, it's clearly doing weird things to Richie's sanity, and his dick.

After a frozen moment of hesitation, Eddie walks slowly over to Richie and slides into the empty seat next to him at the bar, staring at him the entire time. They angle towards each other automatically, knees brushing underneath the bar. Eddie’s eyes are ridiculously huge; Richie wants to eat him alive. In a sexy way, not a weird cannibal way.

“Didya miss me, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie says.

Eddie gulps. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi?”

“Yeah, asshole. It’s how normal people greet each other,” Eddie says, and god, Richie _missed him. _That’s not even fucking possible. They don’t really know each other. Still, he feels something slide into place in his chest, like there was a puzzle piece missing from his heart, and he found it sitting in this shitty tiki bar when he wasn’t even looking for it.

Richie grins at Eddie, and after a moment, Eddie offers him a small smile. Yep. Still adorable.

“Your glasses are cracked,” Eddie says.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Had a little accident with a whip.”

“Really?” Eddie asks. “What were you doing?”

“Well, you know, me and your mom like to spice things up in the bedroom. Got to mix it up to keep an older lady interested,” Richie says.

He earns a Look™ for that one, and relents, laughing. “Okay, okay, I stepped on them.”

“Of course you did,” Eddie says, shaking his head. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Richie asks, but he’s still smiling. He takes another sip of his beer, waiting for Eddie to say something. The silence stretches long enough that he begins fidgeting, tracing patterns in the condensation ringed on the wooden bartop.

Next to him, Eddie takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for leaving,” he says.

“Hey, no big,” Richie says. “Hit it and quit it, baby, am I right?”

He raises a hand for a high-five. Eddie just glares at him, leaving his hand hanging awkwardly in the air between them.

“Fuck, no,” Eddie says. “I’m- not like that, really, I swear. I just don’t really _do _this kind of thing, and I woke up in your bed, and I was still kind of freaking out a little bit, because I’m not even really gay!”

“Oh,” Richie says, putting down his arm. “Hey, me neither.”

“What?”

“Bisexual, baby,” Richie says with a shit-eating grin, trying to hide how nervous it makes him feel to say that word out loud in public, even when he’s already sucked this guy’s dick and nobody is paying any attention to them. “I’m available for some sweet loving for both you _and _your mother.”

“Gross,” Eddie says. “No, I mean, I’m not into dudes at all, or I guess I thought I wasn’t. I’m kinda reevaluating that one now, which is a big thing to process, okay, so yeah. I kinda freaked out a little bit and ran away, and I- shouldn’t have done that. So. Sorry.”

Richie nods, relaxing his shoulders. He can understand that, at least, the fear of realizing you're into dudes and a whole bunch of people will hate you for it forever. At least he wasn’t the only one freaking out. “S’cool," he says. "So, big gay revelation, huh? Did you get a choir of angels singing when I sucked your dick, or something? _Haaaaaaaalelujah!!_”

Eddie whacks his shoulder. “No, dickwad.”

“Damn,” Richie says, smiling around another sip of beer. “Guess that means I didn’t do it right.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says.

Richie nods, swirling the beer obnoxiously around in his mouth. He might not be super experienced sexually, but no one has ever accused him of not knowing what to do with his mouth. Plus, Angie from the record store gave him some great blowjob tips. Maybe Eddie will let him try some of them out, if he can keep the bubbling excitement in his chest under wraps for a few more minutes and pretend to be a normal person.

“You-uh. You wanna try again?” Eddie asks.

Richie nearly spits out his beer. Did Eddie just read his mind? Is he fucking with him?

Eddie looks earnest, and nervous, but there’s a stubborn set to his shoulders, and Richie realizes all at once that Eddie came back to this bar just to find him, even though he was clearly nervous that Richie hated him for leaving him to wake up alone in bed. He swallows down the beer, feeling like a sledgehammer hit him in the gut. Huh. He’s not the only one who wants this.

He’s rarely fascinated by people, but there’s something about the real courage underneath Eddie’s adorably manic exterior that makes Richie want to peel back those layers and figure him out. In a romantic way, again, not in any sort of weird cannibal way. He really needs to come up with better metaphors.

“Yeah,” Richie says. He probably looks like a lunatic with how much he’s been grinning, but he really can’t help it. He calls up The British Guy. “I rather think that can be arranged.”

Hope and relief bloom in Eddie’s eyes. “You’re not funny, asshole,” he says, but he’s smiling.

Richie chugs the rest of his beer, flags down Tricia, leaves a generous tip, and takes Eddie home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monty Python reference, anyone? 
> 
> Thanks for the encouragement, you guys are awesome. New chapters coming soon. We're gonna start accelerating the timeline a little bit.


	4. Eddie; July 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter today babes

Tuesday morning; it’s early yet. The first blue light of dawn is just starting to filter through the blinds, illuminating the edges of Eddie’s impersonal rented furniture in his neatly organized room. 

Richie is sprawled out on top of him, left arm flung over his torso and left leg winding between his legs. He's drooling on Eddie's pillow, face turned towards him, and he desperately needs to brush his teeth, but Eddie still wants to lean forward and kiss him repeatedly, feather light, until he wakes up. Instead, he reaches over and smooths his hair away from his face with a gentle caress, letting him sleep. 

Richie doesn't stay still, even in his sleep. Last night, as they’d been getting ready for bed, Richie had begun humming the tune of Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy,” then singing it, louder and horrendously off-key, dancing around the room until he got to the lyrics “I’m too sexy for my cat” and Eddie tackled him to the bed to preserve his own sanity and his relationship with his roommates. With Eddie’s arms wrapped tight around his waist, Richie had finally stopped singing when Eddie told him to _shut up and fucking go to sleep, dipshit. _Richie, grinning, snuggled back into his grasp and actually listened, for once. 

Even with Eddie’s arms around his waist as an anchor, Richie had rolled over during the night, waking Eddie up early in the morning when his head whacked against Eddie’s nose. Last week, he’d woken up with Richie’s feet in his face, because he’d somehow managed to turn completely upside down over the course of the night. The restless sleeping should be annoying, but it’s so _perfectly _Richie that Eddie can’t quite bring himself to be disgruntled. Except when he wakes up with feet in his face, because gross. He should feel trapped with Richie’s arm flung across his chest, but the weight of another body pressing him down into the mattress feels nicer than he could have imagined. 

He feels warm, and content. Secure. Sure of himself. He feels... loved. 

His eyes jolt open, his muscles tensing. Holy shit. That's an absolutely insane thought to have after dating someone for less than two months, especially when they haven’t had The Conversation yet about whether they’re boyfriends or not. 

In all his 22 years of life, no one has ever, ever described Eddie Kaspbrak as chill. Not once. High-strung, anxious, like a chihuahua pulling against his leash? Sure. Richie keeps calling him cute, which he likes more than he will _ever _let Richie find out, but even Richie would never describe him as chill, not even if he was trying to be nice. He doesn't adapt easily to change without advanced notice. Somehow, though, against all odds, bringing Richie into his life feels as natural as thoroughly disinfecting his sublet apartment once a week.

It's weird. It's seriously weird. There’s plenty of things to be concerned about, besides the fact that he apparently feels _loved _in Richie’s arms. That fun little tidbit, he can keep to himself, but he lives in New York City. He’d accepted a three-month summer internship in LA after a blowout fight with his mom over spring break, but she’d called him, crying, and made him promise on the grave of his dead father that he would come back to New York for his senior year. He has to go back. Not getting his degree isn’t a remotely feasible option. 

He looks at Richie, relaxed in sleep and handsome, even with his mouth open. He hasn’t exactly told Richie yet, that he’s heading back to New York at the end of the summer. They’ve talked about lots of things, playing footsie while sitting across from each other in diner booths or huddled underneath Richie’s sheets cuddling on a Saturday morning. They’ve talked about their families, and _Ghostbusters_, and how weird it is that they both really don’t remember their childhoods. Eddie talks about NYU all the time, so Richie definitely knows that he still has to finish his senior year, but Eddie’s pretty sure that Richie’s brain hasn’t put two and two together yet. Senior year + NYU = Eddie’s not gonna be in LA for very long, baby. 

Or maybe, like Eddie, he’s been avoiding saying anything out loud. Maybe if he doesn’t say it out loud, whatever weird magic connection brought them together will never end, and they can stay in the comfortable warmth of each other’s arms forever, listening to the dull roar of morning commuter traffic starting outside the window. 

When Eddie flew out to this side of the country, he expected to learn about risk assessment from his internship at the downtown office building of the Guardian Insurance Company. He definitely knows his way around a spreadsheet by now, after two months spent swearing over data entry and crunching statistics algorithms until the numbers were swimming on the monitor in front of him. 

He didn’t expect to learn how much he likes to be kissed. He didn’t expect to learn how much he likes waking up with someone in the morning, or how much fun sex can be when you’re laughing with your partner. He _definitely _didn’t expect to find out that he’s gay. 

Going back to NYU is going to be a shitshow. His mother’s going to be intolerable. He’s not going to be able to tell her anything about LA, because he’s not going to be able to stop mentioning Richie, and if his mother finds out he’s gay, she’s definitely going to try and have him institutionalized. Either that, or she’s finally going to have a fucking heart attack, because Eddie is apparently a terrible, selfish son and an awful person. 

And Richie. Oh, god, Richie. He’s going to have to leave him, and Eddie feels a tightness in his chest not unlike an asthma attack at the thought of walking away from this. It’s like he’s the protagonist in one of his mother’s terrible daytime soap operas, getting way too attached to a guy that he’s basically just met. He somehow feels like he’s known him forever, and yeah, that’s a ridiculous clichéd thought to be having at 6 am on a Tuesday morning, but it doesn’t mean it’s not true. 

His breath is starting to come faster. There’s no way he’ll be able to go back to sleep now. Maybe he should slip out of bed and go for a run. It always helps him process things to get moving. Although going running in Los Angeles puts him at a high risk of being kidnapped by a serial killer, or being mugged, or getting lost, or having an asthma attack because of the pollution, or having an asthma attack and then getting mugged by someone who will then come back, decide to kidnap him, and then totally murder him, and then his mother will die, like for real, and… 

Richie snuffles in his sleep, flopping his left hand up onto Eddie’s face. He draws his hand slowly downwards across Eddie’s forehead and nose. Reflexively, Eddie closes his eyes. “Go t’sleep,” Richie murmurs. “Fuck. S’early.” 

His fingertips trail over Eddie’s lips and chin, dropping down to Eddie’s bare chest, patting him twice, then resting over his heart as Richie snuggles back into the pillow. 

Eddie opens his eyes again, feeling his heart stutter and skip a beat. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There’s a warm, buoyant feeling behind his ribs. He can feel his own heartbeat thrumming against Richie’s fingers, splayed across his chest. Eddie might have to revise his opinion on those soap operas, because if those characters were feeling even a tenth of what he’s feeling right now, then a whole lot of storylines just became a lot more believable. Except for the one where Abigail came back from the dead, because that’s just bullshit. 

Carefully, he slides out from under Richie’s arm, watching him grumble and frown, reaching out for Eddie. Sliding on running shorts and a t-shirt, he grabs his keys and heads out the door, jogging down the stairs and out onto the quiet street. 

Maybe if he runs far enough, he won’t have to deal with the fact that he’s apparently fallen in love with someone he can’t keep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falling in love with someone during a summer internship on the other side of the country and then proceeding to make life decisions around that person would not be Eddie's style normally, but there's the extenuating circumstances of clown-induced amnesia. Richie, the absolute disaster, would definitely fall in love with Eddie that quickly even if he'd really never met him before. 
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments!!!!! I really, genuinely appreciate them. You make me smile. 
> 
> I haven't read the book, so this is all movie canon, and me making shit up.
> 
> would you guys listen to a playlist for this fic? it would be terrible, but like, in a fun way


	5. Richie; August 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaand we have a [playlist!!!!!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6NDAa5tIWU1OfAGhOGWmVx) for everyone who expressed an interest
> 
> It's a mix of songs for particular characters, songs for particular moments, and songs for the general ~vibe~. Some of them were mentioned as the music played at the Laguna Room, but I removed Cheeseburger in Paradise, because it turns out I actually can't stand listening to Jimmy Buffett. Who knew. Anyway, it's got like three ABBA songs on it, so you know it's good. It's ordered specifically (so you get the combo of 9 to 5 followed by I Want to Break Free for Eddie, I mean, come on), but listen however you like. 
> 
> also, if you want to overanalyze the music selections with me, or just say hi, I'm Grace#6075 on discord!!

Richie might be a dumbass, because, yeah, that’s like his whole shtick, but he’s not dumb. He sees all the ways that he and Eddie don’t fit together, because Eddie goes to college and works a 9 to 5 and probably will be a straight-laced picket fence-owning taxpayer someday, and Richie, well, Richie decided to skip college in favor of developing a killer record collection and an encyclopedic knowledge of Monty Python’s Flying Circus sketches. He doesn’t belong in Eddie’s Norman Rockwell future. As such, he’s been waiting for Eddie to break up with him for about six weeks now, ever since he realized that Eddie will be heading back to New York at the end of the summer to finish his senior year.

Richie’s pretty sure it's happening tonight. Eddie’s finally built up the nerve to tell him to fuck off forever. He's been weird all evening. Well. Weirder than normal. Weird in a weird way, not in an adorable way. 

When he’d arrived at Eddie’s apartment after his shift, he’d raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he had a chance. Richie nearly fell forward into Eddie, who had yanked the door open and was clutching the edge, staring at him with eyes even bigger than normal. Then Eddie smiled— not the soft, fond smile of movie date evenings, or the wide grin he tried to hide whenever he found Richie’s jokes genuinely funny, or Richie’s favorite, the adorable giggle that meant Eddie was relaxed and happy to be with him. Tonight’s smile was none of those lovely options. Nope. It was the Nervous Smile, tense and manic, Richie’s least favorite. Major red flag numero uno.

Richie had tried to get him to relax back to his baseline level of nervous energy, but Eddie kept laughing hysterically at his “your mom” jokes in the car when he’d normally just roll his eyes, and he kept on smiling that same strained smile. It was goddamn unnerving. Eddie didn’t even critique Richie’s parallel parking job, which means that either the world is ending, or Eddie is about to break up with him. Richie hates it. If Eddie isn’t giving him shit and griping about his sense of humor, what’s the point?

So Richie can’t really taste the beef fried rice he’s eating, which is a damn shame, because this would be a beautiful moment if he wasn't busy resigning himself to the great, big, ugly conversation looming on the horizon. They’re sitting on a bench along the Venice Beach boardwalk, surrounded by enormous palm trees swaying in the breeze as they watch the sun set over the ocean. Eddie’s picking at his chicken with peapods, _no _cashews, occasionally pausing to glare at the seagulls circling around them and their dinner.

It’s touristy, and cheesy, but Richie had promised him that he’d take him to the beach, because Eddie, unbelievably, hadn’t gone yet during his three months in LA. This fidgety, silent date isn’t quite what he had in mind. He'd imagined them eating on the beach, but Eddie preferred his dinner without sand in it, thank you very much, so they compromised on this slightly grimy wooden bench with gum stuck underneath the hand rests. He’d also imagined this night with 100% less uncomfortable tension, but a breakup is coming. Anyone with eyes can see it, even with eyesight as shitty as Richie's.

He's not going to cry, when it happens. He's going to be chill, and understanding, because he is a chill and understanding guy. Unless, of course, Eddie starts crying. If that happens, all bets are off. They might be having a really embarrassing scream-crying break up in the middle of one of Los Angeles' most popular tourist attractions. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, turns towards Richie, and opens his mouth to say something. Richie looks up at him, dreading what he's about to hear but welcoming any form of distraction from his own thoughts. 

“Uhh,” Eddie says, “So. Uh.”

Fuck, this is awkward. Richie normally talks his way right out of uncomfortable silences, but he doesn’t really want to remind Eddie of the more annoying aspects of his personality and hasten the death of this relationship. Instead of blurting something random, Richie looks back down at his dinner and stabs at a chunk of beef with his chopsticks, swearing under his breath when it drops right back into the carton.

“Uh,” Eddie says. “How’s… how’s your dinner?”

“Good,” Richie says, picking up a chunk of egg white and rice and popping it into his mouth. “S’good. Beefy. Y'know.”

Eddie nods as if Richie has said something wise, turning back to his own meal and looking into the depths of the white take-out carton like it holds the answers. Richie has to resist the impulse to just fucking say it. He wants to name the heavy thing in the air between them, wants to stand up and yell, "Hey! You're breaking up with me! It's okay!", and then moonwalk the fuck away, but if Eddie needs time to get the words out, then Richie will give him time.

It's like being friends with someone with a stutter: even when you get impatient and they get frustrated, you can't just assume you know what they're going to say. Eddie deserves to break up with him however he sees fit. He'll buckle his seatbelt and give him time, no matter how fucking awkward it gets.

The beef fried rice is starting to get cold, and kind of greasy. Blowing a breath out through his teeth, Richie sets the carton down on the bench between them, abandoning a meal midway for the first time in literal years.

He’ll get through this. Shit, he already knows what Eddie’s going to say. Long-distance isn’t realistic, he’s sorry, but he has to go, gotta leave you behind and face the truth, yadda yadda yadda. He’s probably also realized that he's a responsible, attractive person with a bright future, and he shouldn't be wasting his time with an amateur stand-up comedian who constantly looks like he needs a shower.

It's okay. It really is. Or it will be, someday. Probably. Maybe in the far-distant future, when he's forgotten the sound of Eddie's laugh and the desperate little punched-out sounds he makes when he's about to come, then Richie will be able to move on, and be totally okay with being left behind.

Ugh. Waiting to be heartbroken is almost worse than having his heart broken. A cigarette would be heaven, but he avoids smoking when he's with Eddie, who coughs pointedly and starts listing statistics about lung cancer whenever Richie lights up. Instead, he fidgets with his cuticles, picking at a hangnail on his left thumb.

Normally, Eddie's hand would come to rest gently on top of his hands, and Eddie would remind him not to pick at it, because that's totally unsanitary, and there are better ways to deal with it, but Eddie isn't making eye contact with him right now.

Right. He's about to break up with him, of course he doesn't want to touch Richie. It's not his job to take care of him. It never was, really. They're not boyfriends. Eddie could just leave town, because Eddie's not in love with him, and it's not his fault that Richie fell hard and stupidly fast (heh) for someone who goes to school on the other side of the country. Not anyone's fault. That's just life, kicking him in the nuts.

Shit, this might actually be the last time they ever see each other. There's so much he wants to say, but nothing that would make a difference, so he suppresses the urge to babble about the hot beach babes or the interesting things they could do with a coconut.

Instead, Richie looks up at Eddie, trying to memorize the contours of his face. His short hair, ruffled by the breeze, catches the orange gleam of the dying sun, and the warm pink light of the sunset illuminates his dark eyes. His narrow shoulders are tense, and he’s also put down his carton of food, although Eddie carefully closed his container first. He has his arms wrapped around his own thin torso like he wants to protect himself from an incoming blow, but he still looks gorgeous. He’s almost regal in the golden light, pretty enough for a portrait in some fancy-ass art museum. Delicate-featured, maybe, but Richie knows there’s steel in his spine.

Eddie definitely deserves better. He deserves someone cultured, someone who will write sonnets about him and cherish him emotionally, not Richie, who gives him incredibly sloppy blowjobs and occasionally take him out for Chinese take-out. 

He turns back to the ocean, feeling unsteady. It's a beautiful location for a shitty occasion: the soothing rush of the waves, the smell of salt in the air, lots of hot girls in bikinis and ripped shirtless guys playing beach volleyball. He starts bouncing his knee, scaring away an ambitious seagull strutting past their feet. Fucking hell, does he want a cigarette. It would be a really lovely consolation during this shitshow. Maybe a bottle of cheap whiskey instead. Probably both. This is fucking excruciating.

"So… um," Eddie starts again, then stops. He's staring at his own lap.

Here it comes. Take two. Brace for impact.

"Yeah?" Richie says, resigned. Patience, young padawan. He promised himself he would give Eddie space, and even if his heart is crumpling like a tin can, he's going to keep that promise.

"I-uh," Eddie says. "Fuck. Fuck! I'm just going to say it, this is so weird."

Please. Please just fucking say it, before Richie spontaneously combusts.

"So. I have to go back to New York in two weeks," Eddie says.

Richie waits for the hammer to fall.

"And. Uh. I want you to… fuck. Why is this so hard?" Eddie says, reaching up to scrape his fingernails across his scalp.

"It's okay, Eds," Richie says, trying to keep his voice steady and generously ignoring the golden comedic opportunity. "Really. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"Ugh. This is crazy," Eddie says. "This is so dramatic and stupid and I can't believe I want to do this. I've only known you for like three months! This is fucking ridiculous!"

Richie frowns. Breaking up after three months isn't ridiculous; it's actually pretty predictable when you look at the pair of them. But what the fuck else could have Eddie so nervous? Unless this whole thing has been an elaborate setup for a punchline that Richie somehow didn’t see coming.

"Eds," Richie says. "You lost me. What's ridiculous?"

"I- I want you to come back to New York with me?" Eddie says in a rush, blushing furiously. He looks like he's on the verge of a panic attack, or possibly about to throw up.

"Oh," Richie says.

_Oh_.

He's been so busy considering different reasons that Eddie might break up with him that he's forgotten to consider the possibility that Eddie might not want to leave him.

Huh. Leaving LA would suck, on some level. He'll miss the sunshine and the excuse to wear Hawaiian shirts most days of the week. Getting a new job would be time-consuming, and he'd have to figure out where he was going to live, especially if things didn't work out with Eddie.

But. And it’s a big but (heh). What if things did work out with Eddie? What if this could be something more permanent than a fun little summer fling? The thought of commitment, of things somehow going right, almost scares him more than the idea of uprooting his entire life.

They could share a shithole apartment, waking up in each other's arms every morning. They could get a dog, and Eddie would graduate, and Richie could find another job and work on his stand-up act. New York could get used to his Hawaiian shirts. They could build a life together, a life that they wanted for both of them.

That tempting possibility dangles in front of his eyes like the sun glinting off the edges of the waves, fleeting but real and beautiful. What would he be leaving behind, besides the fucking awesome weather? Some roommates who dislike him and a job that means very little to him? His lovely apartment with a stellar view of the back alley? _The Laguna Room? _There are other jobs and other bars that don’t play so much Jimmy Buffett waiting for him in New York.

Maybe he could build something for himself in LA, given enough time, but he hasn't yet. Eddie's sudden arrival into his life has kick-started something in his brain, allowing him to recognize just how empty his life had been. He had been missing out on so much. Regular sex was awesome, sure, and Eddie had finally worked up the courage to give him a very meticulous blowjob two weeks ago, but as much as he hates to admit it, sex wasn't what he had been missing.

A genuine friend was what he needed, to pull him up from drifting underwater, alone and anonymous in the sprawl. His heart is happy. The fact that his dick is also happy is totally great, but weirdly secondary. It's possible that someone switched out his personality when he wasn't paying attention.

Shit. He wants to go with Eddie. He wants all of that sappy shit, now and forever. Sign him the fuck up. He's not sure this is really happening. The cute guy he's been sort-of dating wants him to move across the country to be together for realsies? Doesn't sound realistic. Bad plotline. Terrible special effects.

"Shit, Eds," he says, still reeling, grasping for the words that normally come so readily. "I-"

"I know it's fucking crazy," Eddie says, voice subdued. He's still avoiding eye contact with Richie. His shoulders are hunched, defensive. "I know."

"Eddie-"

"We haven't known each other for very long, I mean, you could still be a serial killer for all I know. Not that I think you're actually a serial killer. But, you know. Los Angeles."

"Eds, I-"

"But I just feel like I'll never see you again if I leave, and I'm not even out of the fucking closet yet, but I really don't want to lose this- thing, whatever it is, not that we need to put any labels on it yet, and I’m just- I just-”

"EDDIE!"

"What?" Eddie says. He's practically vibrating, wide-eyed and gorgeous. Richie wants nothing more than to reach forward and pull him closer.

"I want to come with you," Richie says, he's almost surprised to find how much he means it. His heart is pounding double-time. 

"Oh," Eddie says. "Really?"

"Yeah, man," Richie says, cracking a genuine smile for the first time all evening. "I know it's kinda nuts, but… I dunno. I don't wanna lose that sweet ass just yet. I would follow you anywhere, if you know what I mean."

"Richie, come on," Eddie says, eyes intense. "Are you serious?"

Can't play it off as a joke, now. Eddie will actually murder him if he does, and honestly, Richie wouldn't blame him. Richie nods, hoping that Eddie believes him, because yeah, he is actually serious. Holy shit. The more he thinks about it, the more he knows this is what he wants. 

"Oh, thank fuck," Eddie says, dropping his face down into his hands. "Holy shit. I was so sure you were about to laugh in my face."

Richie chuckles, feeling a cord of tension between his lungs release, easing his chest. "Yeah, well, I was convinced you were about to break up with me, so."

Lifting his face back up, Eddie frowns. "Seriously?" he says.

Richie nods again, but he's grinning now. This is real. He's definitely gone crazy, but it’s okay, because Eddie is clearly just as mad. Fuck, he's gone on this boy.

"Huh," Eddie says. "Well. Now you know."

"Is this why you've been freaking out this whole time?" Richie asks.

"Yeah, mostly," Eddie says. "How could you tell?"

"I mean, you're always kind of anxious," Richie says. "But you were acting weird. Laughing at my jokes, and letting me make decisions about stuff. Hell, you let me order your dinner for you, and only warned the guy about, like, three of your allergies."

"That's weird?" Eddie asks.

"For you? Absolutely," Richie says.

"Yeah, okay, asshole," Eddie says with a small smile. "Fuck. I really wish I could kiss you right now."

Right. They're in public, and homophobia exists. The beach is crowded with tourist families picking up sandcastle equipment and folding blankets. Straight couples holding hands keep walking past them on the boardwalk, surveying the long line of shops selling trinkets and greasy food. There's a whole group of women clad in neon spandex roller skating in formation, and two teenagers in at least seven ill-fitting layers of grungy clothing are doing skateboard tricks on graffiti-covered concrete barrier down the way.

He could kiss Eddie right now. They would probably be okay; no one's looking at them. But if he starts kissing Eddie right now, he's definitely not going to want to stop, and Eddie will be mad at him. Most days, he won't even let Richie keep his arm around his shoulders for too long, let alone hold his hand in public. Right now, as whiplashed as he feels, he really doesn’t want to feel Eddie pull away from him.

"Wanna head back to my place?" Richie says instead of kissing the living daylights out of him.

Eddie nods, reaching down to close Richie’s carton of Chinese. His eyebrows furrow as something occurs to him. Fuck, Richie hopes he isn't waking up from whatever fugue state made him ask Richie to come with him.

"Just to be clear," Eddie says, looking up at him. "You're, like, my boyfriend now. Right?"

He still looks anxious, but there’s a beautiful glimmer of hope in his eyes, and Richie wants to kiss his whole face and… other areas. Oh, yeah. This was an excellent decision. Richie immediately drops into his best Valley Girl voice. "Yeahhh, like, I can, like, be, like, your boyfriend. Awwww, babe!! That's, like, so sweet!"

"Shut up and take me home," Eddie says, and yep, he's staring at Richie's lips.

Ooookay. Can do.

They’re still not talking much on the drive home, but the tension has gone. The wave crested, and now they’re sitting on the beach. Emotionally, not physically. Physically, they’re driving away from the beach. Whatever, he’s not good at metaphors. Eddie makes Richie hold his hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, but he’s clearly in a good mood, because he lets Richie crank the volume on “Video Killed the Radio Star,” and he might even be dancing a little bit in the passenger’s seat, bopping his head to the beat.

Richie throws his beat-up jeep into the first parking spot he sees on the street near his apartment building, not bothering to correct his crooked parking job. Eddie must _really _be in a good mood, because he also doesn’t say anything, although he does look down at Richie's skewed back wheels for a good five seconds when he climbs out of the passenger seat onto the sidewalk. 

Richie rounds the car and throws his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. They walk down the sidewalk, and Richie's legitimately resisting the urge to start skipping, unable to contain the energy bursting in his chest. They practically chase each other up the stairs, Eddie’s lovely little giggle making a reappearance as Richie fumbles his way through unlocking the door and pushing him down the hallway to his bedroom.

As soon as they clear the door, Eddie’s reaching up to pull him down into a kiss, open-mouthed and filthy. They’ve learned to read each other so well, biting at each other’s lips and smiling into the kiss. Knowing each other makes this shit so much better. Score one for emotional intimacy. Pulling back, Eddie shoves him a few feet closer to the bed, then reaches down to pull his own shirt off.

“Fuck,” Richie says, watching him. “I should agree to move across the country more often if I get a strip-tease out of it.”

Eddie blushes all the way down his lean chest, but there’s a new fire in his eyes, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he pulls his shirt off his arms. Apparently becoming someone’s boyfriend, like, officially, is a confidence-booster. Who knew?

"God, I really could have sworn you were about to break up with me," Richie says, because he’s been unnaturally quiet all evening and he can’t really stop running his mouth now that everything’s okay. He pulls his shirt over his head and unbuttons his board shorts, wiggling them down his hips.

"I thought so too, for a little while," Eddie says, neatly folding his dark blue polo shirt and placing it on top of the papers littering Richie's bedside table. "I mean, I thought I would have to break up with you, because of the distance, and stuff. I thought it wouldn't be fair to you if I asked you to come with me, or ask you to wait for me. But then I realized that I really, really didn't want to leave you, so I thought. Fuck it. He's gonna hate me either way, I might as well ask."

"Huh," Richie says. At least one of them put a lot of thought into this major life decision. Definitely wasn’t going to be him. "How long have you been thinking about this?" he asks.

Eddie blushes harder, which is hilarious, because he's standing naked in Richie's bedroom and Richie basically just declared that he’d do anything for him.

"Uhh. Since I met you? Kinda?" Eddie says, climbing onto the bed and laying down on his back, propped up on his elbows to watch Richie finish undressing.

"Well, Edward, I do declare," Richie says, adopting a southern accent as he drops his batman boxers. "It almost sounds as though you fancied little ol' me!"

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie says. "You know I did. Get over here."

Richie flings himself, full-bodied, onto the small bed, making Eddie bounce on the mattress. On his back, he scoots himself up until his face aligns with Eddie’s, then reaches over to scoop his arm under Eddie’s back and pull him up and over on top of him. Eddie goes willingly, settling down on top of Richie's legs. He reaches down, trailing fingers absent-mindedly through the hair on Richie’s chest. Both of their dicks are still mostly soft, although Richie's definitely starting to feel a little something from the sight of Eddie straddling his thighs.

"Are you sure about this?" Eddie asks, uncharacteristically quiet. Richie’s not sure what, exactly, he’s referencing, but he definitely knows his answer.

"Yeah, sweetheart," Richie says, trying to match his tone. “Yes, I’m sure.”

He really doesn't want to break this fragile new future of theirs that’s just starting to take shape. Pet names are definitely allowed for boyfriends, right? Eddie isn’t glaring at him, so it’s probably okay.

Eddie's fingers swoop lower and lower, tracing circles on his lower stomach. Richie's poorly-defined abs flex instinctively under his hands, and Eddie nods to himself, suddenly looking determined. "You wanna fuck me?" he asks.

Richie's brain shorts out a little bit, and he forgets how to make words for the first time in his life.

"Ungh," he says, and Eddie smirks at him. "Uhh. I mean. Yes?"

"Okay," Eddie says. "Did you remember to buy more condoms?”

“Shit,” Richie says. To be fair, he’s been a little busy preparing for Eddie to break up with him. Not exactly the kind of occasion that requires condoms.

Eddie sighs, then leans forward to open the drawer in the small bedside table, pulling out a half-empty tube of lube and squirting a generous amount onto his fingers. “You really need to keep those in stock,” Eddie says, reaching down to fondle Richie’s balls with his slicked-up hand. “Some other time, yeah? I’ve been thinking about it, like, a lot.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, and he’s smiling again, because _later _is something they can plan on now. “Yeah, later.”

Not how he thought today was going to go, but he can totally get on board with this. Little Richard is certainly on board with it, and yes, it _is _hilarious whenever he calls his dick by that name, and Eddie definitely agrees with him, because they’re _boyfriends. _

Boyfriends. He has a boyfriend. Eddie is his boyfriend. He asked, Richie said yes. Commitment central. Healthy communication in the city.

Maybe he should get “Eddie Kaspbrak’s boyfriend” tattooed on his forehead, to show how much he means it. A tramp stamp would also be a valid option. There’s some real potential there, but Richie will have to think about that some other time, when he isn’t in the middle of getting a very enthusiastic handjob from his _boyfriend, _who wants to fuck him. At some point. Not now, because safe sex is important, as Eddie keeps reminding him.

The thought of someone else caring about his personal and sexual well-being should be a little weird. They’re probably going to be each other’s emergency contacts and sign leases together, like real adults, and that’s a thought that would have been terrifying to Richie three months ago, before he walked into _The Laguna Room_ and made eye contact with Eddie. It’s still terrifying, sort of, but. Like. Good terrifying. If that’s even possible.

Then Eddie twists his hand a little faster, and Richie loses his train of thought. Probably for the best. He’s going to have to figure out how to reward his _boyfriend _for a truly awesome evening in a few minutes, and that’s definitely more important than whatever his brain had going on. Actually, that's probably true all the time. He can replace all his thoughts with a continuous loop of _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, _and the world wouldn't be missing much. It might even improve his stand-up act. 

If this is the only bit of luck that he ever gets, and everything else in his life goes terribly, forever, then he's still lucky as hell. As he looks up at Eddie, at that the lovely determination in his eyes and way he's sticking out his tongue a little bit as he concentrates on jacking Richie off, he knows he will have Eddie as long as he can, in any way that Eddie will have him. But that's a thought for a different moment. For now, Richie reaches up and pulls Eddie down, because it's been far too long since he stuck his tongue into Eddie's mouth.

He can get sappy tomorrow. They've got all the time in the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just realizing how much they swear in this chapter. There's a lot of heightened emotions, I suppose. I'll ask them to tone it down a little bit. 
> 
> let me know what you think!!! as ever, I love your comments, and I love you for writing such lovely things


	6. Eddie; September 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! I was busy hanging out with several herds of elk, my sister, two cats, and an indeterminate number of coyotes. You know how it goes. 
> 
> this chapter brought to you by Cloudbusting by Kate Bush, which is currently stuck in my head.

Every detail about his flight-- takeoff time, expected landing time, average rates of delay, diversion, and death, in-flight entertainment options, expected meal choices and their relative safety, and average annual weather patterns across the entire flight path-- had been carefully copied down in Eddie’s notebook for months. He’d had to go over the safety data twice with his mother during the week he’d spent at home at the very beginning of summer break, long after he’d accepted the internship and booked his tickets, in order to get her to stop putting newspaper clippings about devastating plane crashes on his dinner placemat every night.

By now, he knows the details forwards and backwards, but he still finds himself opening his spiral notebook to the familiar page of statistics and running his fingers down the columns of neatly-printed numbers, reassuring and orderly.

LAX takeoff: 6:04 a.m. Terminal 4, gate 47B. Arrival at LaGuardia: 4:25 p.m. Terminal B. Five hour flight time, three hour time difference. High safety ratings for all new passenger jet models. Richie will be following him in another two weeks, once he’s sold his car, paid his final month of rent, and worked out his two week’s notice. Eddie takes a shuddering breath, wincing at the pressure clamping the space between his lungs. It’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

In the driver’s seat, Richie yawns, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel. It's early enough that he hasn't bothered with real clothes, still sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed in his pizza-sauce-stained Pink Floyd t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. Eddie had assumed that he'd take a taxi to the airport, given that it was normally impossible to drag Richie out of bed until 10 am, but Richie had flatly rejected the idea last night, and stumbled his way out of bed with surprisingly minimal complaining when Eddie shook him awake at 4 am. His battered orange jeep smells of weed, coffee, and doritos, and the engine rattles ominously whenever they exceed 50 miles per hour, so they're shuddering their way down the broad expanse of the interstate, watching as streamlined, overpriced sports cars zip past them in the left lane. 

Eddie studies him, eyes tracing in repetitive circles over his features. Stubble covers Richie’s cheeks, long hair curls past his ears, and smudges cover his glasses. Tired as he looks, he's keeping both hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, probably because he doesn't want Eddie yelling at him first thing in the morning. The coffee hasn't kicked in yet. On another day, at a later time, Richie would be throwing both hands up, singing along to _Fast Car, _just to make Eddie panic and grab for the wheel. The quiet car ride feels unsettling; Eddie almost wishes Richie would change lanes without using his turn signal so they could slip into the familiar argument about car safety rules. 

God, Eddie's going to miss him, and they're only going to be separated for about two weeks, because they're _those people, _apparently, that couple who can't bear to be apart from one another. Even though they basically just became a couple, and they're not telling anyone quite yet. Except his roommates, because Richie will probably be crashing with them until he finds a job, which could take weeks. Maybe some of his other friends. Does that mean Eddie has to come out? Definitely not to his mother, because that's a thought Eddie doesn't even want to entertain, but maybe within certain circles at school. There are so many details that they need to work out, and so many ways that this whole insane process could easily go wrong, but right now, Eddie can't look away from Richie's face, paralyzed with dread at leaving him behind. 

There are moments, usually quiet moments like this one, pre-dawn on the already-busy Interstate 405 with the first color of sunrise blushing over the mountains on the horizon, when Eddie feels a strange shiver in the back of his mind when he looks at Richie. Deja vu, maybe, but he can never quite make the connection to a particular point in the past similar to the present moment. It’s like he can see the shadowy outline of another, younger face superimposed over Richie’s own features, the ghost of a memory just outside his grasp. It’s aggravatingly elusive, and whenever he thinks about it too long, he can feel the recollection slipping further and further from his mind.

When he’s feeling fanciful, he imagines that they knew each other in a past life, but realistically, that’s a bunch of horseshit. Soulmates aren’t real. Magic isn’t real. There are no elves in the woods or monsters in the sewers, no matter what anxieties make Eddie curl up tighter under his covers in the darkness of the night.

Richie pulls off the highway, following the signs for LAX over a series of curved ramps and quickly merging through the traffic of taxis and hotel shuttles. His attention to the road is becoming suspicious. Richie has never paid this much attention to driving in the entire time Eddie has known him, even though Eddie constantly reminds him that temporary lapses in attention on the road can have devastating consequences. That means that Richie is either nervous about saying goodbye, or busy plotting out the entire story arc of a movie about laser cats. Hard to tell. 

Eddie has never been good at saying goodbye. Either he tries to be really genuine and almost starts crying like a goddamn baby, or he comes across as an asshole trying to avoid the first option. A handshake clearly isn't gonna cut it here, but are they gonna hug in the airport? Kiss? Eddie fidgets in his seat, almost wishing he'd just kissed Richie's forehead and left him sprawled across his sheets in the dark sanctuary of their bedroom.

The jeep jolts over the speed bump at the entrance to the dark parking garage, and Eddie reaches up to grip white-knuckled at the door. Richie swings the wheel to the right and screeches his way into the closest open spot, parking crooked as ever. Eddie shoves the sticky passenger side door open and steps out of the car, taking a deep breath. Even at dawn, between two layers of night-cooled concrete, the promise of heat hangs in his air.

Richie pulls Eddie’s suitcase out of the trunk and starts rolling it across the pavement in the direction of the terminal. It’s a sweet gesture, if oddly formal and chivalrous, but they’re both feeling weird about this. Eddie decides to let it slide as he hikes his backpack further up onto his shoulders and follows after Richie, who is walking faster than normal with his goddamn long legs, and oh right, he’s still wearing his pajamas. In public. Because he's a disaster.

Eddie stops walking in the middle of the parking garage next to a rusting Ford Explorer, gripping the straps of his backpack. Shit. Eddie's going to miss him. He's going to miss him a _lot_. Is it too late to transfer to UCLA and stay here? Probably. Maybe Richie could stow away in the baggage compartment, except he'd totally trip over something and give himself away by swearing loudly. There's no way out of this goodbye, in public, with Richie wearing his fucking pajamas.

Richie, nearly to the pedestrian walkway crossing over to the terminal, stops and turns to look back at him, brows furrowing.

“What?” he says.

“You don’t, uh, have to come with me into the terminal. If you don’t want to,” Eddie says. “I mean. You’re still wearing your pajamas and everything, and I really appreciate you driving me to the airport, but it’s really early, so. Yeah.”

Richie snorts. “Eds. It’s five in the goddamn morning. No one else cares what I'm wearing.”

“Well, maybe _I _care,” Eddie says, but he’s already walking forward to catch up with Richie. He doesn't really want to say goodbye to Richie quite yet, no matter what nervous nonsense his mouth is spewing.

“Yeah, you care that they make my ass look amazing,” Richie says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Besides, I’m just gonna go back to sleep once I get home, what’s the point in changing?”

Eddie reaches up with one hand to shove at Richie’s shoulder, making him stumble, but he’s grinning. He’s suddenly, fiercely glad that Richie decided to come with him to New York. They’re leaving each other for now, but they both have a future to look towards. They’re gonna be fine. He swallows, thickly, as they cross the drop-off zone and walk through the automatic doors into the terminal lobby.

Eddie looks up at the green block letters on the departures board, eyes tracking down to his flight. AA 630 to LaGuardia, on time. Of course. The one time when he might actually want to linger an extra moment, and the stupid airport won't even give him that excuse. Bastards.

After navigating the red tape of the ticket desk, the baggage check-in, and the walk through the metal detector, they walk side-by-side down the long row of gates, keeping pace with each other. On either side, through the windows, they can see planes rolling up to gates, getting ready for early morning flights, one of them ready to carry Eddie to the other side of the country. Music plays quietly over the speakers, but the tinny chords of "Baby Hold On" don't mask the squeak of their shoes against the polished floor. The weak early morning light casts angular shadows across the walkway, washing the terminal in angular shadows and giving the polished floors an otherwordly gleam.

Richie has clearly woken up a little bit, falling back on his old standby of motor-mouthing his way through his nerves. Eddie nods and hums his way through the conversation, half-listening as Richie blathers about airport food and the mile-high club. He's very conscious of the distance between their bodies, carefully held apart from each other. If Eddie was braver, maybe he would reach out and lace their fingers together, grounding them both. Instead, he triple-checks the boarding pass in his right hand, scanning the terminal for his gate. 

They pass a McDonald's and turn right at a fork in the terminal, and Eddie spots the sign for 47-B, mounted on the ceiling to their right. A small crowd of passengers mill around the gate. Some are napping in the uncomfortable plastic seats, their heads at odd angles. A few pairs of exhausted-looking parents are trying to stop their excited toddlers from licking the floor and running through the aisles of the waiting area. There's a short line of disgruntled passengers waiting at the flight attendant desk.

They draw to a stop, side-by-side. His flight isn't boarding yet, and Eddie doesn't want to let Richie walk away already, but they're in public. He spots two purple-and-blue patterned seats in the corner opposite the desk, partially hidden behind a large fake potted palm, and starts walking towards them, letting Richie follow behind him. At least they'll have some semblance of privacy for this shitshow. He sits down, and Richie flops down next to him in the corner seat, drawing Eddie's small suitcase to a stop in front of them. 

His neck prickles with the uncomfortable awareness that other people are staring at them, idly curious about their relationship. Eddie's palms itch to reach out and pull Richie down into a kiss, but the early-morning airport gate isn't the right time to test out public PDA. He can feel his heart pounding even though he's on time for his flight and he'll see Richie in two weeks. Logically, there's nothing to worry about, but knowing that there's nothing to worry about has never stopped him from worrying before. 

Eddie swivels his seat, gripping his own thighs tightly. Richie is bouncing his left leg, staring at an indeterminate point in the airport ceiling tiles. It's so reminiscent of their first meeting that Eddie feels his heart squeeze. Slowly, he unclenches his hand from his own leg and reaches out to press his fingers into Richie's thigh, gently stilling the movement.

Richie sits up, looking at him with an unreadable expression behind his glasses.

“So… uh,” Richie says. “I guess this is it. Sayonara? Hasta la vista? Don’t let the bed bugs bite? Seeya later, alligator?”

“Oh, my god,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “Goodbye, you moron.”

“Aw, Eds, you’ll miss me,” Richie says, expression softening.

“I don’t know why,” Eddie mutters. Shit. He wants to pull him down and bite at his lower lip, or maybe suck a mark into his neck to leave him with a little reminder of the reason he’s committed to moving across the country, but they’re in the fucking airport terminal. That's _definitely_ not happening. 

He settles for reaching out and wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck, pulling him down into a hug. Richie’s arms come around his waist, pulling them tight against each other. Their knees bump. Ugh, why are they sitting down for this? Eddie would stand up and grip Richie tighter, but they're already squeezing each other tightly despite the awkward angle, too tightly to be entirely platonic, and god, Richie’s warm and broad-shouldered and comforting. He smells like their bed when they’d woken up together this morning. A few tears prickle sharp at the corner of Eddie's eyes, and he presses his face against Richie’s neck, closing his eyes and hiding away in the warmth of his skin.

He can see tears in Richie’s eyes when they finally pull away from each other, but they’re both grinning at each other.

“Sap,” Eddie says, reaching out to shove so gently at Richie’s shoulder that it hardly counts as more than an excuse to touch him again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie says. “Look who’s talking. Listen, I know you’ll miss Little Richard, but there’s no reason to cry.”

Eddie nearly groans aloud. “Jesus Christ, I told you to stop fucking calling it that.”

“Good golly, Miss Molly!” Richie says, affecting a terrible imitation. “Are you saying I’m not Tutti Frutti enough for you?”

“Nah, you’re plenty fruity,” Eddie says, then blushes.

Richie cracks up, bending over in his seat, nearly snorting with how hard he’s laughing. In the corner of his eye, Eddie sees the middle-aged businessman on the bench closest to them glare up at them, crossing his arms over his chest, but fuck him. It _was _pretty funny. Eddie’s going to miss seeing this, Richie loose-limbed and happy, over the next two weeks. His stomach feels tight.

From the desk next to the gate, the blonde flight attendant picks up the phone and makes the announcement: first class and active duty military passengers for the American Airlines flight to LaGuardia are now boarding. Richie stops laughing.

“It’s two weeks,” Eddie says, reaching out to grip the handle of his carry-on so hard he can hear the plastic squeaking slightly. “Just two weeks. Right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Richie says. “Nothing to worry about.”

They both stand up, hovering awkwardly across from each other in the corner of the waiting area. Eddie glances around; everyone's busy gathering up their belongings. No one is paying them any mind, not even the businessman from earlier. He takes a deep breath, looking up at Richie, making a final effort to memorize his face. After a moment of charged staring, Richie steps forward and gives him one more hug, shorter this time. He gestures over his shoulder in the general direction of the parking lot, back through the terminal they just walked through together. 

“Well!” he says. “Don’t wanna pay for parking longer than I have to, if you know what I mean, and there’s a bed calling my name. Might even still be warm, huh?”

“I’ll see you in two weeks,” Eddie says, and yeah, obviously, they both know that, but he really needs to hear it right now. One more time. It's a promise to himself, more than anything else.

“Yeah, you will,” Richie says. He pauses, stepping forward one more time, then ducks down to press a quick kiss to Eddie's forehead, feather-light and fast, so no one around them will notice. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

With one final grin, he turns and walks away, long legs carrying him quickly through the empty terminal. There are definitely other people turning their heads to look at Richie, because he's tall, handsome, softly tousled with sleep, and still wearing his pajamas like a lunatic bohemian degenerate. 

The flight is terrible, as expected, but mercifully punctual. Eddie has the aisle seat, necessary for timely escapes in the unlikely event of an emergency, but the woman sitting two seats down from him has a baby who will not stop crying, little red face scrunched up in displeasure. He looks down at his own knees, brushing against the seatback, and grins as he imagines Richie trying to cram his long legs into a tiny economy seat. Eddie can deal with a shitty flight and a crying baby as long as he doesn't have to deal with a complaining, cooped-up Richie. Thank god for earplugs and face masks. 

It’s good, being home. He loves watching the students come back for class, as they mingle into the constant lively bustle of New York life. Sure, LA had better weather, but he missed the logical gridded streets and the diners. He goes for runs, settling back into the rhythm of the city. He visits his mother in her cramped Long Island condo, chosen to be closer to him, and grimaces his way through her simpering smiles and cheek pinches as she cajoles him to never, ever go so far away from her again. 

Classes start in a week, so he starts preparing, laying out notebooks and stocking up on pencils. He's rooming with Steve and Will this year, in a tiny fifth-floor walk-up reasonably close to NYU's campus. It's a decent living arrangement. They're good guys. Their apartment comes together over the next week, sparse and white-walled except for an enormous Michael Jordan poster Steve hung up on their living room wall above the couch. Hometown loyalties die hard, and Eddie doesn't really care about interior design, as long as everything remains relatively neat. 

His room in New York is nearly as Spartan as his rented room in LA, but he has the essentials. A picture of his mother, so she doesn't worry when she visits. Desk, dresser, nightstand, lamp, bed. Everything he needs, although it feels oddly empty and sterile in his room. Too clean, even though it's basically the same set-up he's had for years. He carefully organizes his textbooks the bookshelf mounted above his desk, arranging them by topic and approximate date in the semester. He buys a new sweater. His graphing calculator needs new batteries. He goes on runs, relishing the challenge of pushing himself. It’s going to be a good year, he can feel it in his bones.

His mother asks him about LA, when _Days of Our Lives _goes on commercial, and he tells her about the weather and the sprawl. When Will asks, he tells him about all the spreadsheets he’d toiled through over the course of his internship. When Steve asks, he talks about going to the ocean. _By yourself?_ Steve asks, and Eddie frowns. No. That doesn’t sound right. But who was he with?

He’s forgetting something, he thinks, as he jogs up towards Central Park, one week into the semester. He has his friends, and his mom, and his classes, but he's missing something vital like a phantom limb. Maybe he has a quiz coming up in one of his classes? It’s a little early, but it’s not impossible. Or maybe that’s not it, and he’s forgetting something else. Something big. 

It's on the tip of his tongue. Something important. Some...one important? He's almost got it, when a woman runs past him on the sidewalk with five dogs attached to some kind of enormous belt contraption, and he gets distracted trying to avoid being tangled in the mob of fluffy heads and waving tails.

It only occurs to him later that night when he's laying flat on his back under his neatly-pressed blue sheets that he was trying to remember something important. What was it? Shit. He's lost his train of thought.

Well. He’ll figure it out later. If it's really important, it'll definitely come up at some point, and isn't that a terrifying thought, just as he's trying to fall asleep. Great. 

He's put it out of his mind by the next day. He's sitting on the black futon in his living room, annotating an extremely boring article about communication techniques for his international business class, when the landline in the hall rings.

He glares up at the phone, annoyed, but none of his roommates are home, and if it's his mother, she'll assume he's died and call the cops if he doesn't answer. Sighing, he pushes himself up off the couch, stretching out his upper back, and walks over to the phone. Maybe it's a telemarketer, calling at an inappropriate time. He'd love to give them a piece of his mind. He picks up the receiver on the fifth ring, starting to twirl the cord around his pencil.

“Eddie Kaspbrak speaking,” he says, flat.

"Eddie?" says a familiar voice through the voice, sounding uncertain. Holy shit. He _knows_ that voice. He does. It's... shit.

"Speaking," Eddie says. "Who is this?"

“Edward Spaghedward! It's me! Oh, I should have known you'd break my poor little heart,” says the voice in a terrible accent.

Shit. There’s only one person on the planet who would call him by that particular nickname. It’s… Uh. That guy. Fuck. That very important person, whose name is…

“...Richie?”

“Hi, Eds,” Richie says, again, and Eddie can hear him smiling through the phone.

“Richie!” Eddie says, eyes going wide, his mind racing through all the different things he’d meant to adjust in his life before Richie arrived. He turns to lean against the wall, slumping backward in shock. He mentally checks the date. Oh my god. He'd promised to meet Richie at the airport tomorrow. “Holy shit, you’re getting here tomorrow," he breathes. "I- I’m not- uh, shit, I didn’t ask my roommates yet if you could crash at our place for a while. Shit! Uh. I haven’t done anything that I promised you I would do, I’m so sorry. I just got caught up in the beginning of the semester, and I have so much homework already, and I- ah, fuck, I’m sorry. I’m the worst.”

“Eddie,” Richie says, but he doesn’t sound mad. If anything, he sounds… relieved, like he’s trying to stifle a laugh. “It’s okay. Really. I can be, like, super stealthy if you don’t want to tell your roommates. Although I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep quiet in bed, cuz I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you, like, as soon as I see you.”

“Oh, my god,” Eddie says. “Seriously?”

“I promise, babe,” Richie says. “Don’t even worry about it.”

“No- that’s- seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, pausing for dramatic effect. “It’s working, right?”

Eddie grumbles into the phone, but his brain is kicking into panic mode. He desperately needs to clean his apartment, because he’s going to be sharing it with his boyfriend, and holy shit, he’s definitely a _terrible_ boyfriend. Who does shit like that? He falls in love, asks Richie to move across the country for him, and then almost forgets to pick him up from the airport after two weeks spent apart? Something’s not right.

He must have a fucking concussion. That’s definitely abnormal. He’s definitely got, like, serious memory problems, and possibly some kind of terrible unknown brain disease. He’s going to need to go get psychologically evaluated later, and maybe get a brain scan just to be safe, and he should probably start writing things down more often, just in case he starts forgetting more super important things about his life.

Will and Steve are fine with letting Eddie’s… friend stay in their apartment, although they get a little weird when Eddie absent-mindedly says Richie won’t be sleeping on the couch. It’s fine. He’s too busy spraying every surface in their kitchen with Lysol, scrubbing until the entire apartment smells like antiseptic and lemon. It’s a stress relief thing.

The next day, he grits his teeth and gets on the subway, trying to resist the urge to wipe down all visible surfaces with bleach as he sits on the disgusting plastic bench and looks at all the metal railings around him, trying not to imagine germs crawling all over them. Someday he’s going to buy a car, when he’s not trying to stretch the last of his dad’s college fund money to cover his tuition payments.

LaGuardia at midafternoon is a special kind of hell, with people coming from all directions with diseases from all over the world. He joins the small crowd of people waiting at the gate, craning his neck to watch the walkway. Richie isn’t the first person off the plane, or even the thirtieth.

A family of five disembarks, each of them wearing Disneyland shirts and mouse ears. A girl in an NYU sweatshirt runs to hug her mother. Still no Richie. Maybe the phone call was a strange dream, and Richie a figment of his imagination. It would make more sense than Eddie acquiring a boyfriend during his three months in LA and then immediately forgetting him, like a melodramatic idiot. He’s fidgeting, nearly ready to leave, when his eye catches on a mop of dark hair over thick square-framed glasses, and holy shit, Richie’s actually here, hair mussed from sleeping on the flight and ratty blue duffle bag in hand. He’s real, and he's _here._

Richie catches sight of him in the crowd waiting for friends and family members. He beams, waving enthusiastically, nearly whacking the elderly lady in front of him in his zeal. Eddie’s heart actually flutters, like he’s a goddamn romance novel heroine. How could he have forgotten this? There’s definitely something seriously wrong with him, beyond whatever weird defect made Richie Tozier insanely attractive to him. His stomach drops as Richie ducks around the elderly woman and powerwalks through the waiting area. Eddie may throw up on him.

He’s standing right in front of him, still beaming down at him. He’s real, and right now, he looks very, very tall. They’ve had sex. _Gay _sex, because they’re both men, the kind with dicks, and Eddie is gay. And now they’re in an airport. Right. Two simple facts: 1) they’re gay, 2) they’re in an airport. In public. So it would be a very bad idea for Eddie to pull him down and kiss the shit out of him. 

He definitely remembers that he’s gay, because that’s not the kind of thing you can just forget because senior year of college starts up. Shit. He’s gonna have to write that down in very big letters in his hypothetical turns-out-I-have-a-shit-memory notebook, possibly a whole lot. Maybe on every page, just as a reminder. You’re gay! You’re gay, he’s gay, we’re all gay!

This is quite possibly a very elaborate dream sequence, although he’s not really sure if it qualifies as a nightmare when Richie’s looking down at him with an emotion that can only be described as tenderness in his eyes.

“Hi,” Eddie says, breathless with panic. Hopefully it sounds like excitement.

Richie frowns down at him. Fuck, it isn’t working, because Richie knows him too well, and Eddie had nearly forgotten him. What the fuck. _What the fuck!?!?! _

“Hi,” Richie says, reaching out to pull Eddie into a quick hug, then pulling back to look at him, one hand on each of Eddie’s shoulders.

Okay. Deep breaths. Does he need his inhaler? Did he bring his inhaler? Shit, he didn’t bring his inhaler. Okay. He can panic about this later. Richie’s here now, and they still recognize each other, even if Richie seems to be able to read him like no one else, and god, is this ever gonna stop being freaky? Stop it, brain. It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.

“You okay?” Richie says, unhelpfully reading his mind, as if Richie’s uncanny ability to read his moods wasn’t the whole problem. “Breathe, man.”

“Yeah!” Eddie gasps, smiling tightly. “Just. Uh. Weird. You being here. I mean. Exciting! Uh. You know.”

Richie nods sagely, as if Eddie had made any sense at all. His thumbs are rubbing tiny, comforting circles into Eddie’s shoulders, and despite himself, Eddie feels the spool of tension in his chest begin to release. He begins rubbing his index fingers in circles over his smooth thumbnails, seeking to ground himself without throwing himself forward into Richie’s arms like he really wants to.

How could he have he forgotten somebody who could make him relax like this? How could he forget how it felt to have Richie's big hands touching him, warm and steady against his arms?

Before he can properly panic about everything, Richie grins at him, then spins him, hooking a lanky arm around his shoulders. 

“Come on, Eds,” Richie says cheerfully, leading them the wrong way towards a dead end. “Time to show me the Big Apple.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, we're going with the whole "the clown makes them forget each other if they're apart for too long" thing. Good thing Richie had already booked his flight and written down Eddie's phone number, am I right? (there won't be any infidelity because of the memory thing, because fuck that noise)
> 
> Ah, pre 9-11 airport security. A different world. Appropriately enough, I wrote some of this in an airport. This is based off of Chicago O'Hare, not LAX, because all airports are O'Hare in my head. Can't escape. 
> 
> Next update might take a little while, because I have a lot of IRL commitments in the next few weeks, but rest assured, this story will get finished.


	7. Richie; September 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay!! Work and the holidays made December a busy time. I can promise more regular updates again this month, because one of my jobs is on a break until February. 
> 
> A reminder that this fic has a [playlist!!!!!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6NDAa5tIWU1OfAGhOGWmVx), and the theme of the playlist is BANGERS

When Richie walks off the plane at LaGuardia and sees Eddie Kaspbrak waiting for him, he knows he must be dreaming. The sky opens, light streams down, birds start singing, there's music and wonderful roses, he knows the true meaning of love. Too good to be true without movie magic or divine intervention, but it's a high-quality dream. He would give his own imagination points for realism, except Eddie is too cute to possibly be real.

Dream-Eddie lets Richie swing his arm around his shoulders and lead him on a winding route through LaGuardia, a construction site pretending to be an airport. It's a nice dream, despite getting lost four times. Richie's not complaining. He would stay lost in LaGuardia forever, if he could stay with Eddie. He's going to keep dreaming as long as possible, and probably wake up with a boner. 

Except now, sitting on a hard plastic seat with his luggage wedged between his legs as the train car swerves and lurches, he's starting to wonder if this might be real after all. Eddie hasn’t vanished, although he’s still suspiciously quiet, offering Richie a weak, nervous smile whenever they make eye contact, but Richie’s dreams aren’t normally this detailed. 

He’s dreamed about cute boys before, sure, but not of sitting next to a cute boy on a mostly empty subway car that smells vaguely of piss, listening to the tinny sound of "Dancing in the Dark" playing through the headphones of the teenager in front of them. He probably wouldn’t feel so tired, if he were dreaming, and robot chickens would have attacked by now, or the businessman by the door would have turned into a werewolf. Richie feels greasy from the flight, like there’s a fine film over his skin. His eyes are dry and gritty, and his legs are strangely sore considering he was just sitting for five hours. Dreams aren't usually this realistic about how awful his teeth feel when he gets off an airplane.

On the other hand, if he's not dreaming, then he really did forget his cute boyfriend until he followed the instructions of a weirdly aggressive letter left on his beside table and made a phone call to New York. That sounds like the kind of weird premise his brain would come up with, the kind of logic which makes perfect sense while he’s inside the dream, and comes out as garbled nonsense when he tries to explain it to one of his roommates the next morning.

He reaches up and presses down on his chest, over his heart, feeling the reassuring crinkle of the letter inside the front inside pocket of his jacket. After calling Eddie, he’d read the letter over and over, like some sort of romance movie heroine pining for her old love lost at sea. The piece of notebook paper was now crinkled like an antique, and he nearly had the whole thing memorized, but he still lets out a sigh of relief, feeling the paper over his chest. He couldn’t forget as long as he had it. Not completely. Not again. 

The train clanks and bobs, turning a dramatic right curve, and Richie yawns, slumping down in his seat. Cross-country flights are the worst. 

Eddie remains strangely quiet as they get off the train, exit the station, and climb the grimy steps up into the midafternoon sunlight. Richie’s gaze darts everywhere-- gridded streets! Taxis! Genuine New York assholes pushing past them on the sidewalk! Parks! Garbage! Telephone poles papered in concert and comedy show posters! He wants to play it cool-- he’s got some LA pride, after all, after living there for a few years, but it’s New York City, bitch. Nothing can quite come close, for better or for worse. 

If he were alone, he would be fully gawking like an idiot, but he’s also very conscious of the presence of Eddie’s body walking beside him. There are some really weird looking pigeons, and he wants to explore everything, but-- Eddie isn’t holding his hand. He’s keeping their bodies a friendly foot apart, avoiding his gaze. 

Well, that settles it. This is either real, or Richie’s imagination is torturing him. If this is the real thing though, he has two important issues to deal with: 1. He forgot Eddie for a hot second. Like, straight up forgot him. Who does that? Could Eddie tell? Which led to: issue 2. Eddie isn’t looking at him, and Richie might not be the best at taking social cues sometimes, but he knows enough to know that’s bad. 

Is Eddie mad at him? Regretting asking Richie to come to New York? Overcome with inescapable lust, overwhelmed by the sheer animal magnetism between them? Which, definitely still attraction there, but, focus, Richie. That’s probably not it. 

He’s about to open his mouth and say something-- what, exactly, he’s not sure, probably something dumb-- when Eddie’s arm snaps out and snags the back of his backpack, stopping him in his tracks. Richie’s left leg swings forward comically and his arms flail as he tries to stop his momentum and switch directions. 

Once his limbs settle back into a normal position, by his generous standards, he falls into place beside Eddie on the sidewalk, looking up at a six-story apartment building faced with white stone. It looks old and fancy. There’s architectural detailing, the kind of antique stonework that Mike and Ben would drool over. 

Wait. Shit. Who the fuck is Mike? Who the fuck is Ben? 

This is his life now with serious memory loss. Hopefully Eddie can accept him like this, because he can’t even remember what he’s forgotten. Do retirement homes take 22-year-olds? He'll have a great time with all the grandmas, just like Mike would in Florida. And there his brain goes again, with random facts about someone named Mike who he's never met. Shit. He's getting a headache.

They’re still standing in front of the building. Is there something significant about it? Unless-

Richie lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Eds. These your digs?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie answers. “Fifth-floor walkup. Makes it affordable.” 

They stand another moment on the sidewalk. Richie looks at Eddie, waiting for the invitation to enter the building. Eddie bites his lip, in a nervous way, not in a sexy way. Well. It is sexy, that goes without saying, but that’s clearly not the message Eddie’s trying to convey here. 

“So…” Richie says. “We going up?” 

Eddie looks down at his feet, then back up into Richie’s eyes. “I, uh, might have forgotten to mention you to my roommates. Until last week, when you called.” 

“Oh,” Richie says. “So, uh, are they not cool with it? Gonna leave me on the street with all my earthly possessions?” 

“Oh, no, no, it’s fine,” Eddie says. “I mean, they’re a little weirded out. I didn’t exactly explain that you’re… well. My boyfriend.” 

Ah. Eddie’s not cool with telling people just yet. Cool. Cool, cool, cool, that’s fine, everyone’s journey is their own. No big. No issue at all. He nods to himself, then flashes a grin at Eddie. “Okay, so you’re a shitty roommate. Out of character, sure, but I guess nobody’s perfect.” 

He reaches out a hand towards Eddie’s cute little chin, trying to get those big brown eyes to stay focused on him, but Eddie flinches away. Shit. 

“It wasn’t just the roommates,” Eddie says, blinking fast. Oh, shit. If Eddie cries, Richie is gonna lose it, and possibly walk right into the Hudson. 

“Hey, Eds, it’s okay,” Richie says. His fingers itch to reach out and touch him, to smooth the tension out of his narrow shoulders, but Eddie looks like he’s on the verge of breaking down, or possibly breaking up with him, and Richie will exile himself into the sewers with the mutant crocodiles before he hurts Eddie. Either way, this isn’t a conversation they want to have in the street. 

He hikes his backpack and his duffel bag up onto his shoulder, and reaches out his clammy right hand. “Why don’t we talk about it inside, huh?” he asks. 

For a moment, Eddie stands frozen, staring at Richie’s extended arm. Then, slowly, like he’s afraid Richie will yank his hand away, Eddie uncurls his arms from around his torso and takes it, nodding to himself as he threads their fingers together. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah. You’re right.” 

Richie lets out a deep breath, scanning the street. Nobody’s paying any attention to two guys holding hands in the street, but he still hurries his steps as Eddie pulls him towards the apartment building, crowding together in the same tiny compartment to shuffle through the revolving door. 

The building is definitely fancier than Richie’s old apartment. There’s carpet in the lobby and wood paneling on the wall. Eddie pulls Richie through the lobby, nodding to an old lady sitting at the desk to their right and squinting at them suspiciously. Richie gives her a winning smile, which only makes her eyes narrow further. As they reach the stairwell, Richie's eyes catch on the fine detailing of the metal vines supporting the banister. The stairs are carpeted, too, holy fuck. Who has time for this much vacuuming? Not that Richie knows that much about vacuuming or apartment buildings, but holy shit. No wonder the lady in the lobby was glaring at him, with his dirty shoes.

“So, are you, like, secretly loaded?” Richie asks as they round the third-floor landing. He can feel a sweat breaking out on his already greasy forehead. Eddie, the fit motherfucker, isn’t even breathing hard as he shoots Richie a look. 

“Two roommates, five floors of stairs,” Eddie says. “Brings the cost down.” 

“I can see why,” Richie wheezes, as they start on the next flight of stairs, clinging to the wooden banister. He’s so tired. He could fall asleep right here, on these lovely carpeted stairs. How does Eddie do this every day? The toned calves and sculpted ass are starting to make a lot more sense. 

“It’s not that glamorous,” Eddie says, “but some of us have standards.” 

“Oh, yeah, I know,” Richie says. “That’s why you’re dating me.” 

“I didn’t say they were high standards,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “Besides, uh, my dad set some money aside for me in a trust when he died. So, I have that.” 

“Ooh, a trust fund baby!” Richie says, taking his hand away from the banister to swoon dramatically. Eddie nearly pulls him off balance as he continues charging up the stairs. Richie’s calves are burning as they hike up to the last landing. Almost there. 

“Good golly, I’ve married rich!” he cries, looking around at the intricate glass light fixtures on the fifth-floor landing as he catches his breath. 

“No," Eddie says. "You're rich."

"Uhh," Richie says. "Hate to break it to you, but I very much am not."

"No- you- you're Richard. Richie. Rich." Eddie says. "Get it? You're Rich. I'm dating Rich."

Was that… an absolutely terrible pun? The tips of Eddie's ears are visibly red. Richie might be in love. Is it too early to propose marriage, especially considering it's not legal and he fully forgot Eddie for at least a week? Probably. He's still tempted by the impulse to drop to one knee.

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie says, tugging Richie through the door into the fifth-floor hallway. 

Richie grins, letting himself be pulled. “I didn’t say anything,” he says. 

“Yeah, but you were thinking it,” Eddie says. 

“Telepathic, huh?” Richie says. “That’s rough, buddy. I don’t even want to be in my head sometimes. Find anything interesting up there?” 

“Not really,” Eddie says. “Lots of dust bunnies.” 

Eddie turns left down the hallway, and releases Richie’s hand to fumble in his khakis for his keys. Richie bounces on the balls of his feet, running his fingers through his limp hair. He needs a shower and a nap, ideally in that order. 

Once he gets the door unlocked, Eddie walks confidently into the apartment. Richie follows him into exactly the kind of place Eddie should be living-- white carpet, mismatched but definitely real wooden furniture, posters hanging in actual frames on the wall. They have lamps and bookshelves and an actual stand for their TV and VCR player. It looks like a space for a real adult. Richie suddenly feels very dirty, very far from home, and very, very tired. 

“Well, this is it,” Eddie says, sweeping an arm to gesture to the living room and kitchen. Richie can see an actual view of the city out of the windows framing the TV. 

Richie takes a step forward, trying to get a better look out the windows, but Eddie clears his throat. When he looks back at him, Eddie is looking pointedly down at the floor, where his own white-socked feet are wiggling against the carpet. 

“Shoes-off house,” Eddie says. 

Of course. Richie toes out of his shoes, feeling his cheeks flame into a blush. His ratty jeans and band t-shirt were fine for the plane, but maybe they’re just helping to remind Eddie that what happened in LA should have stayed in LA. He hoists his duffle bag up onto his aching shoulder and shuffles his feet, feeling oddly vulnerable without his shoes. Richie’s going to spill something all over this carpet if he stays here for more than a week.

“So," Eddie says. “My roommates had class. Well, so did I, but I wanted to get you settled.” 

Great. Now Richie’s tanking Eddie’s academic career. He’s a real asset to this shoes-off household. Eddie begins walking down the hallway, past two bedrooms and the bathroom, heading to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Richie shuffles behind him. 

“You’ll be sharing with me,” Eddie says. “Obviously. I mean, you’re not gonna be sleeping with Steve. I hope. Or, fuck, I mean, you’d better not, but I know that’s not gonna be an issue because you’re sleeping in my room, which is... here.” 

He opens the door at the end of the hallway and lets Richie walk into the room past him, falling silent as Richie steps into their now-shared bedroom. It’s small, but bright, walls painted blue, with a double bed pushed against the left wall in the corner and a desk and bookshelf against the right wall. 

“I got the window,” Eddie says, pointing at the window in the far wall next to the bed, which looks out onto the brick of the alleyway to the side of the building. 

“Gotta get those sweet views, huh?” Richie says, trying to crack the tension. The room is fairly standard, but there’s enough personality-- comic books on the lowest rung of the bookshelf, a signed baseball in a plastic case on the desk-- that it feels like Eddie. 

Eddie coughs. “Not so much. Uh… fire escape,” he says. 

Right. Of course. That’s his boyfriend, if you can still call yourself someone’s boyfriend when you temporarily forget they exist, which he should probably mention to said boyfriend. Now’s really not a good time to be thinking about how stunning Eddie would look on top of Richie in that bed with the late afternoon sunlight streaming through his dark hair. So, of course, that’s the only thing Richie can think about. 

Maybe it would be better to clear the air. This is Eddie’s space, but they can make it theirs. He wants this to work, more than he can ever remember wanting anything, but he forgot Eddie. He should just come out and say it. Just tell Eddie that he forgot, then start fresh. Richie turns around, letting his duffel bag thud to the carpeted floor. He finds Eddie staring right back at him, still standing with one hand on the doorknob of his bedroom door. Their eyes lock, and Richie takes a deep breath, because Eddie is breathtaking, and also because-

“I forgot you,” they say in unison, staring at each other. 

Wait. Stop the fucking presses. Hold all the horses. 

“What?” Richie says. 

“What?” Eddie says. 

“I-”

“But you-” 

“I thought-” 

“How the fuck-” 

“-I was going crazy, holy shit-” 

“But then-- how the fuck did you remember to call me?” Eddie yells, stepping forwards and sending his door swinging closed. 

“I didn’t!” Richie says, laughing in relief. This is quite possibly the weirdest day of his life. “I didn’t- you- here,” he says, reaching into his interior jacket pocket and pulling out the crumpled piece of notebook paper that he’d read again and again, desperately trying to understand. 

Eddie snatches the paper from his hands, unfolding it, and Richie can almost picture the words as Eddie reads-

_Dear Richie, _

_Since I know you didn't write down my phone number when I told it to you, here it is: (212) 954-5892. Now you have no excuse not to call me. I'll call you when I get back to New York, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook. _

_I'm gonna miss you. I didn't want to say it out loud because I knew you'd be insufferable, but. Just in case. I'll write it here. Don't let it inflate your ego any more, asshole, or you'll start floating. _

_Also, just in case you forget, even though you promised you would write it down (but we both know you didn't), you're on Flight 7350 to New York on the 4th. I know, I know, you've got it, but if I'm going on the subway to pick you up, you better fuckin' be there. I'm gonna be so pissed if you miss your flight. _

_Anyway, I'm about to wake you up to go to the airport. Did you know you snore? Super loudly. You should probably get that checked out, to make sure you don't have sleep apnea or something. _

_ <strike>Lo</strike> _

_Yours sincerely, _

_Eddie_

Eddie looks up at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t remember writing this,” he says. “Or- I do. I didn’t. Fuck. What the fuck?” 

Richie can only laugh, stepping forward to gently take the letter out of Eddie’s shaking hands. “I don’t fucking know, man,” he says. “At least I’m not the only one going crazy.” 

Eddie shakes his head, brushing past Richie to walk further into the room and pace frantically back and forth in front of his desk, where there’s a corresponding groove in the carpeted floor. Richie smiles. His boyfriend has done a lot of pacing in this room. 

“No, no, no, this is bad,” Eddie says as he paces. “This is very bad. Is it contagious? Are we drugged? Hallucinating? How the fuck did we forget each other?” His voice rises with every word. 

Richie shrugs off his backpack down onto the floor by his duffel bag, rolls out his shoulders, and walks over to Eddie’s pristinely made bed, flopping down onto the comforter. He really does need a shower, but he can’t leave while Eddie’s freaking out, which he’s doing a very good job of doing. 

As he watches Eddie pace back and forth, Richie snuggles down into the mattress, tracking Eddie’s waving hands and tuning out his stream of words. Honestly, Richie could fall asleep right now. Yeah, he and his boyfriend forgot each other, and that should be super concerning, but Dr. K is on the case, and there’s no way he’ll let them be anything other than okay. Eddie will figure it out, and come hell or high water, he’ll find the path. Richie’s not alone in this. 

Richie lets his eyes slip shut, just for a second. Eddie’s rant filters back through as he begins to drift, just a little bit. 

“-maybe we both should get screened for early-onset Alzheimer’s, and- are you even fucking listening to me?” Eddie says. 

Richie leaves his eyes closed but raises his right hand in a totally reassuring thumbs-up. “Mmm. Super listening. Alzheimer's-- bad, bro.” 

Eddie doesn’t reply for a concerningly long beat. Richie cracks his right eye open to check that Eddie hasn’t had an aneurysm just in time to watch his boyfriend clamber onto the bed, settling right over Richie’s hips. 

Richie was right. He does look beautiful in the late-afternoon sunlight. 

“Listen to me when I’m talking to you, asshole,” Eddie says. He sounds pissed, but he’s also currently sitting in Richie’s lap, and fuck, Richie missed his boyfriend. So did Little Richard, apparently.

“I do listen to you!” Richie protests, wrenching both eyes open. “See!! Full attention. Lay it on me.” 

Eddie reaches down and grabs Richie’s wrists, sliding his arms up the mattress and leaning forward to pin him against the bed. Richie swallows, looking up at Eddie’s intent face. 

“I missed you,” Eddie says softly, which, not what Richie’s going for right now, but that’s still fucking adorable. 

“I thought you forgot about me?” he says, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Mmm,” Eddie says, rolling his hips once against Richie’s in a delicious slow grind. Richie almost swallows his own tongue. “Well. I missed you anyway,” Eddie says, and his eyes flick down to Richie’s lips. 

Just as Richie’s about to push up and kiss him, Eddie rolls off and flops onto the mattress next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “But, since you bring it up,” Eddie says. “We should really go to the university clinic tomorrow. Memory issues are no joke. We might not even be cleared for intimate activity. I mean, who knows? Who knows what could be wrong with us? This might be medically unprecedented.” 

Richie groans, rolling to bury his head in Eddie’s shoulder. His jeans are starting to feel uncomfortably tight, but he can diagnose that particular issue as a Pavlovian response to Eddie Kaspbrak. Unavoidable, really. 

Eddie’s left arm comes up around his upper back to stroke through Richie’s hair. 

“You need a shower,” Eddie says. 

“I know,” Richie says, then yawns. Eddie’s hand continues carding through Richie’s hair, gently untangling the knots. Richie relaxes into him, swinging his right arm over Eddie’s narrow hips. The movement of Eddie’s hand becomes hypnotic. Richie strokes a thumb across a warm patch of skin on Eddie’s hip, slipping his hand underneath Eddie’s shirt. 

“I missed you, too,” Richie mumbles into Eddie’s shoulder, and he hears rather than sees Eddie smile. 

“I know,” Eddie says. “Go to sleep, Rich. I’m glad you’re here.” 

Richie smiles against Eddie’s shirt as he drifts off. Yeah. They’re gonna be all right, no matter what, as long as they never forget how to find each other again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Under normal circumstances, moving in with the boyfriend you met two months ago after following him across the country is a superbly bad idea most of the time. But again, we have the extenuating circumstances of clown-induced amnesia. 
> 
> Also, do I know anything about New York real estate? No. Is that going to stop me? Absolutely not. 
> 
> Happy New Year!! Please let me know what you think. I'm planning a whole bunch of slice of life chapters before we get back into the events of chapter two (dun dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnnnn jk nobody's going to die fuck that)


End file.
